


didn't ask for you

by Mizzy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Apologies, Arguing, Closeted Character, Dysfunctional Relationships, Future Fic, Hockey, M/M, Non-Consensual Outing, Pining, Second Chances, Swearing, Trade Deadline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8045176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: Kent Parson has well over ninety-nine problems. He has a chronic potty mouth, a sneaking suspicion he may be an actual idiot, a narcissistically-named cat with gas issues, too many sisters... the list goes on.  Kent Parson has more than ninety-nine problems and Jack Zimmermann — freshly, resentfully and recently traded to the Las Vegas Aces — is definitely one of them.





	didn't ask for you

**Author's Note:**

> Jack and Bitty had their thing but have broken up before this fic starts; do not read if that will bother you.  
> There's a lot of swearing. A lot. Do not read if that bothers you.  
> There's a fuckload of Kent Parson. As above.
> 
> This fic was written as a combination of despair at anons hating on Parse (I mean, like or hate who you want, just don't be a dick about the way you go about it?) and because I'm kind of gutted there isn't more Pimms fic in the tag. D:

 Parse is just the Captain of the Las Vegas Aces; he has no need to be going around _knowing_ things.

At least, that's what his GM and the coaching staff seem to think, because Parse has a pretty good record going of being the last to know something. Hey, we traded your starting goalie to Calgary for two draft picks, hope you don't mind. We're throwing a street hockey fest to raise money for our Aces4Kids program — and by the way you're hosting all eight hours of it. Boom, we traded our first round draft pick for 2021 and your favorite D-man Blitzer, so get used to more penalty killing ice time to make up for that.

Practice is subdued, but of course it is - the trade deadline is always a nerve-wracking time of the year. The Aces' chance of making the playoffs is on a knife edge, and watching Blitzer get tapped out just after last night's game before he even managed to unlace his skates has effectively muted today's entire practice. Coach Rolston's booming voice is the only real contribution to raising some noise above the sound of their skate blades cutting through the ice. Everyone's keeping half an eye on the viewing platform and the benches, waiting to see if anyone else is going to be tapped out in the last twenty hours before the trade deadline.

It could be Parse. That's what Deadline has been saying. It's not like a team hasn't lost its captain before. Nash. Callahan. St. Louis. Staal. And none of them were even close to managing Parse's grade A level of fuckery in public. He grits his teeth. He wants to say he's just an expert at being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that's a lie. He's cleaned his game up, on and off the ice, and he hasn't gone out with anyone but his teammates since June, but he still feels like everyone is waiting for him to fuck up. His sisters even staged a fucking intervention when he managed to get to New York for a couple of days over Christmas, like he hadn't been playing the straight and narrow for six months already, what the fuck even.

Distracted and angry with his thoughts, Parse slides up to the blueline and tries to focus back on the practice; he slams the nearest puck at the goal, and it scrapes Nova's glove on the way in and the way out. Their hulking goalie throws his glove up in the air and glares at Parse through his mask. Parse shrugs, smiles his best shit-eating grin, and avoids Coach Rolston's side-glance.

Obsessing is ridiculous. Whatever happens, it is what it is. If Parse dug his own grave with his summer antics, then so be it. He's gonna fucking lie in that grave and play damn good hockey even if he has to go to Sweden to do it. He takes a deep breath, and then eyeballs the rookie wingers that Rolston called up from the Clark County Hearts, and goes to show them how a two-time Rocket and Ross winner stickhandles.

It's when Parse is engrossed in showing off for the rookies, sliding on his knees and still handling the puck around the obstacles Coach set up for them, that the team finds out exactly why they lost Blitzer and next year's first round draft pick.

It just figures that Parse is on his knees, looking upwards, when he catches his first glimpse of Jack Zimmermann in an Aces jersey.

Rolston is obviously overjoyed, and the team can't stop making excited noises, because losing Blitzer had been a blow, but _Jack Zimmermann._ The Las Vegas Aces' record book might basically be Parse's name printed over and over, but Jack's name is an entire sentence clause. The whole world, not just the hockey one, knows the name Jack Zimmermann: Jack's name is a novel in two words.

Parse hangs back as his team crowds in to welcome Jack. Parse keeps hearing _Parson-Zimmermann, Parson-Zimmermann_ in excited whispers, like their names are just _one_ name all smushed together, and he feels sick. Jack looks angry, but Parse can't divine anything of Jack's real emotions from that expression because Jack Zimmermann patented the resting bitch face years ago.

Parse has often felt like when he skates that he's actually flying, but now that sensation is accompanied by an entire flock of butterflies. A herd. A cloud. Whatever a large group of butterflies is supposed to be called. Parse wouldn't know, he didn't go to college. College seemed like just a way to waste the best years of your hockey prime, and so of course Jack went to college because it wasn't enough to mess up the draft, but he had to fuck up some of the best years of his hockey career too? Parse is actually seething by the time he gets close enough to be in Jack's orbit, and Jack looks at him, and Parse nearly physically reels because the loathing is unmistakable.

Parse is often the last person to know anything, but he feels like he's the first on the team to know this: that Jack wasn't traded willingly. Or happily.

And from the way his eyebrows deepen, he probably thinks Parse set it up.

Fuck.

Shit.

Parse has seen Jack's few fights on hockeyfights dot com (if by seen you mean _obsessively rewatching while downing more vodka than even Nova can manage_ ), and he is well aware that apparently Jack's tendency to hold massive grudges is active and functioning, and he _really_ needs to make Jack aware that he's not to blame for this trade at all.

#

In hindsight, yelling "I DIDN'T ASK FOR YOU" loud enough for even the Aces' GM to hear up in his office was probably not the best way to go about doing that.

Embarrassed, Parse shakes Jack's hand and mutters him a welcome to the team and then he spends the next hour avoiding him and watching him covertly from a slight distance for the rest of the morning skate. There's no game until tomorrow, but the Dallas team are in town already; Parse wonders whether they saw Jack coming into the T-Mobile Arena, and how worried they are at being the first team to face _Parson-Zimmermann_ on NHL ice.

The whole world apparently already knows; Parse's phone is an explosion of notifications, including a group thread of his sisters which seems to just be Kylie saying _FUCK_ a whole lot (the Parson potty mouth curse did not skip a single sibling) and Kennedy asking if he's okay and Krista asking for a pair of Jack's socks when he's done with them because she's heard they sell for a thousand dollars on eBay.

There's also a text from Blitzer: EAST COAST, BABY. Well, at least their missing D-Man is happy with the trade. Parse tries to look covertly over the top of his phone to where Jack is angrily shucking his Aces jersey off, scowling at the chalkboard with his name neatly scrawled on like it's to blame for the trade, but Nova leans over and shoulder bumps him companionably.

"The Q's double dream team back together, eh?" Nova says. "Think we can make it to the playoffs now?"

"I thought we could before," Parse mutters, and he catches Jack glancing over, his expression sliding into a deeper shade of murderous. He turns himself so he can't see Jack, even in the periphery of his vision, and continues, hoping Jack is still shamelessly eavesdropping, "But now maybe we might get an actual berth instead of being a wildcard?"

"Yeah, man," Nova says, nodding appreciatively.

"Tough bounce with the Falcs, eh?" Curly, one of their third-line forwards, calls over to Jack. "Least you gotta be excited about coming to a team with some cup contention?"

Parse vaguely recalls Curly being on Team Canada for the Olympics a couple of years back; he'll have played with Jack, then. Maybe even on the same line. Jack's a first-line player no matter what team he's on, but even a fourth-line Aces forward can play a first-line anywhere else. They're the best team in the whole conference. Which is why their losing streak recently has been somewhat baffling and enraging at the same time.

"I'm excited to see what I can do alongside this amount of talent," Jack says, somewhat diplomatically; he's always been a natural with the press, even though he's also always hated the media stuff with a passion. _Why can't we just play hockey?_ "And a shot at a second cup wouldn't go amiss."

Parse shakes his head. In another life he would have chirped Jack instantly for the reminder that they both won a Stanley cup in their sophomore year, but he's probably not allowed into that same space any more. They've both grown up, grown into different people, even though Parse desperately feels like everyone else grew up but him. He's still the same lost eighteen year old, wanting to play hockey and enjoy the summer and do anything to make Jack Zimmermann smile.

Parse's stomach tightens, and he pretends he's reading his phone screen, but it's an act, because his vision is blurred and Kit's face in his background wallpaper is a blur of grey. When he looks up next, the locker room is mostly empty, Nova the last to still be there.

Nova nudges him with his knee until Parse meets his gaze. "You okay, Cap'n?"

"For sure," Parse says, flashing his best media smile at Nova.

Nova glares back at him suspiciously which, shit, Nova _trained_ him into that smile. "Ahuh," he says. "I've got a parents' afternoon at the school for Millie, but we're firing up the backyard grill at 8 if you wanna drop by?" He waggles his eyebrows meaningfully. "I've got gatorade chilling in the fridge?"

Parse narrows his eyes. "The orange kind?"

"Yeah, you massive weirdo, you know I keep some of that cat piss in for you."

"I'll be there. Want me to bring anything?"

"Nah, just yourself," Nova says, and starts to move to the door. "And a thousand dollars to donate to Millie's college fund, that shit isn't cheap."

"You earn 5 million a year, skinflint. And your oldest daughter's literally six years old," Parse calls back. "Fucking pre-emptive!"

Nova laughs on his way out. "Then bring the cash for the swear jar, you're gonna make me a very rich man."

Parse rolls his eyes and his gaze catches on the berth nearest the door where Blitzer's jersey used to hang.

In its place is _Zimmermann, #11._

Fuck, they gave Jack his dad's jersey number. They probably thought they were being nice. Parse almost can't breathe for a moment, his mouth dry like it's full of blisters, and he forces a swallow that burns his throat before pocketing his overwhelmed phone and hurriedly getting dressed.

#

Getting caught by Rolston and the rest of the management team on his way out is no real surprise, nor is the two hour strategy meeting they haul him into.

They want Zimmermann on his line, of course, but only if the game day skate shows their chemistry from the Q is still there. They've taken a massive gamble that it is; the internet is apparently frothing for joy as much as its gleefully pointing out how much this trade could be the worst thing ever for the Aces if Jack's a liability. A lot of the websites are apparently already saying it's probable that Jack _is_ secretly a liability because why else would the Falconers' trade the fan-favorite forward otherwise?

Parse wants to prove them all wrong. The urge is a strong one. He wants everyone who doubts Jack to be thrown to the wolves and torn apart. Something of that passion must show on his face, because everyone is grinning at him when they end the meeting and slapping his back and Parse wanders out of the T-Mobile Arena in somewhat of a daze. He feels lucky that the press aren't hanging around to get a reaction to the Zimmermann trade, although that may be the PR department intervening, because Parse's record when being surprised with news tends to lead to copious swearwords and even more copious humiliating apologies appearing on Parse's to-do list.

He wasn't surprised by being hijacked by the GM and coaches.

He _is_ surprised by the fact that when he gets to the parking lot, Jack is leaning against his car. Fuck, he still looks like he's casually strolled out of a GQ photo shoot too, long legs crossed at the ankles, his jacket pulling just wrong because of his broad shoulders, blue eyes emotionless but trained in Parse's direction.

Parse almost trips over his own feet at the sight, something Jack immediately smirks at as he straightens.

"Zimms," Parse says, the syllable creaking, and Parse didn't know names did that — broke a little when you went from using them every day to not at all. He has a thousand things to say to Jack, a hundred too-late apologies, and the ever present _I miss you_ , so he opts for something eloquent. "Hey."

"Hey," Jack says, and his stupid voice is still so stupidly attractive, and Parse has to swallow back _I miss you_ again because somehow he _still_ misses Jack Zimmermann.

Even when Jack Zimmermann's standing right in front of him.

It's because it doesn't feel real. It feels like it's going to be swept out from under him as fast as everything disappeared the day of the draft. Parse still wakes up sometimes with the sense memory of Jack's wrist under his fingers. He can remember all too cleanly the way Jack's heartbeat pulsed beneath his fingertips, slowing, slowing, before he let Jack's wrist go, and with it came the sinking feeling that he was letting Jack go too.

In a way, that's exactly what happened.

"So, uh, trade, huh?" Parse would slap himself in the face if he wasn't so certain the Aces have kept him despite his summer antics because of his model good looks. It's certainly not for his model good behavior.

"Yeah," Jack says, scratching the back of his neck with one hand and looking unfairly attractive doing it. Parse tells his internal audio description track to shut the hell up. It's hard enough being this close to Jack again as it is. "The numbers said we weren't gonna make the wildcard slot; the Falcs were after a visible reason why their numbers would be slipping that didn't translate into _hey, we're after a better draft pick_ … and there's the fact that if I stayed one more season with them, my no-move clause would have kicked in, so, you know how that game's played." He shrugs, and looks at Parse with an expression that Parse cannot parse, and, oh yeah, Parse's dumb internal audio track hasn't quit being stupid. Or even quit at all.

"When did they tell you?"

"Just after our game with New Jersey," Jack says."About ten o' clock or so."

"So you flew straight in— and came straight to practice?" Parse tilts his head. Jack shrugs like it's not a weird thing to do. "Huh. I would have taken the day off."

"Knew you had Dallas tomorrow," Jack says. "And Segs hit on my mom at the All-Star weekend, so—"

"I'll alert the troops that he's fair game for some ankle target practice, then," Parse says.

Jack's face goes even blanker and Parse _hates_ that he can't figure out what Jack is feeling. "There's no need to—" he starts.

"You're an Ace now, Jackie-boy; we take care of our own," Parse says, and he forces himself to move forwards, using his electronic key to open the car door. He thinks for a second about asking how Jack knew this was his car, because he used a rental last time Jack saw him somewhere that wasn't an ice rink, but then he recalls the PARS5 number plate, the nearly-empty players' parking lot, and the fact that Jack's more than aware of his tendency to make seldom but splashy purchases, and sadly concludes that his black BM7 basically has _Kent Parson_ written all over it.

It once had _Giroux is the best_ written all over it. Fucking Philadelphia.

"Sure," Jack says. "Anyway, I just— I thought it was best we get this over with, without an audience, so—"

Parse hesitates, one hand on the driver's side door handle, and looks at Jack pensively. Without his melodramatic inner narrative running, he can see other things about Jack than his dashing good looks; the dark circles under his eyes, the slump of his shirt to show he's lost probably more weight than he should have at this point in the season, and the tense set of his jaw, a new-since-the-Q and oddly charming scar gracing the hard line of it. Parse swallows, suddenly unsure of himself. "Get what over with?" he says, slowly, although he doesn't want to actually say the words. Mostly because he doesn't want an answer. The moment feels like he'd have a kinder time chewing on broken glass than getting an answer to that question.

"I'm sorry," Jack says.

Parse jerks and opens the front door of his car and promptly nearly brains himself on it. He covers up his burst of humiliation by glaring at Jack. "What?"

Jack shuffles on the spot, and it would be almost hilarious if Parse wasn't so overwhelmed and exhausted. "I'm sorry," he says again, slowly. "For, y'know."

"No," Parse says, "I don't think I do know. I—" He squints at Jack and wonders if maybe he got hit on the head last week in that glancing check from Bergy. Maybe he hit the glass harder than he thought, and he's hallucinating this whole thing? "Sorry for your face?"

Jack's face does something complicated that resolves into a more familiar expression: pure grumpiness. Usually an expression obtained back in their Q days when Jack thought someone was chirping him, and he couldn't figure out _how_ he was being mocked. "What?"

"I just don't know what it is you're apologizing for, exactly," Parse says. He straightens out his car door fully and leans in to insert his keys without turning them yet; he's probably going to want to make as fast a getaway as he can."Ignoring me for years? Constantly pushing me away when I tried to keep what used to be a pretty damn good friendship, at least I thought it was, or is that what you're sorry for — making me think we _were_ friends, because I gotta say— finding your _friend_ fucking unconscious and _dying_ on a day when you're supposed to be making fucking glory together is a fucking joke—"

"Parse," Jack says, sounding miserable instead of determined.

"—or maybe you're just sorry you never told me about your fucking daddy issues," Parse says, and, okay, whoops, maybe he's shouting. He just has a lot of feelings and he was doing okay with them, he was dealing, he was hiding them pretty damn well until Jack Freaking Zimmermann turned up in _his_ city at _his_ ice rink, on _his_ fucking team. "Because I _knew_ something was up with you, but I thought it was just us being separated that you were pissed off about."

Jack doesn't say anything. The silence probably doesn't mean _Parse, please continue,_ but that's how Parse translates it.

"I mean, c'mon, it would have been two years, three years tops, we would have found a way to be on the same team after that, but _no._ " Parse waves an arm dramatically. "No, you fucking had an actual issue — one _scientifically proven to be better when you have someone you can talk to about it_ — and you fucking kept silent and fucked yourself up and fucked up everything and is _that_ what you're fucking apologizing about? Because _fuck_ you."

And because Parse is a grade A dick, he punctuates his rage by slamming his car door shut.

An ominously annoying _chirp_ sound fills the air of his car door auto-locking.

With the keys still partially in the ignition.

"Shit," Parse says, staring at his car. Well, there's probably a reason no one tells him much of anything, and it's probably because he does nothing for the name of blonds everywhere. He grimaces, and then sighs, and rolls his eyes. "I'm sorry too," he mumbles, mostly to his feet, and when he finally glances at Jack, expecting apoplectic rage, or a stony expression, Jack's badly suppressing a smile instead. _What?_

"Sorry for your face, eh?" Jack says, and of course the fucker is chirping him, of _course_ he is.

"Sorry for being a dick and insulting your college team," Parse sighs, kicking at the ground. "And I'm sorry for shouting all that stuff because I'm an asshole and I lash out when my feelings are hurt and I'm working on that but I keep fucking up. And I'm sorry for not respecting your boundaries when you told me to back off. And I'm sorry I was never safe enough for you to talk to properly, back then."

"That was never on you," Jack says, but he's not quite looking Parse in the eye, so it probably is Parse's fault. Something he did or said.

Fuck, he was probably too obvious how he felt about Jack, and all Jack had needed back then was a friend, not someone who hung around him pushing for their occasional casual make-outs to go shamefully further. That had been a problem back then for sure: Parse is gay, but Jack isn't. Back in the Q Jack just…reacted like any teenager with a functional dick in a tight space with someone who competed in an adrenaline-rousing game 24/7 with him.

It was bro boning. Broning? Was that a thing? Parse had been the idiot who developed feelings all over the place, and then Jack had nearly _died_ , and if it hadn't been for hockey Parse would have probably lain down on that stupid bathroom floor with him, taken the rest of those damned pills, and shut the damn door.

Thankfully, for as long as Parse was in love with Jack Zimmermann, he'd been in love with hockey longer. And hockey's been a much kinder mistress to him.

"Anyway, I just wanted to get all that out before we played," Jack says, waving a hand airily. "So we can be professional and focus on the game."

"Yeah," Parse says, dully. Because that smashes directly in the face the one glimmer of hope Parse had left. That maybe Jack wanted to apologize to fix their once-epic friendship.

No, Jack wanted to apologize to fix hockey. That's all.

It's going to have to be enough. Parse takes a breath and squares his shoulders. If Jack can be professional, so can he.

"I don't suppose you could give me a lift, huh?" Parse asks, jerking his head in the direction of his locked car. "I keep a spare at home for, uh. Well. This exact thing, I guess."

Jack's mouth twists like he's repressing another smirk, and he shakes his head. "All I have is me and a suitcase," he explains. "My mom's still in Providence, packing up my apartment for me. This is all I have. I was kind of hoping you might give me a lift to a hotel or at least point me in the right direction."

Parse is touched that Jack expected the confrontation to go well. Huh. Then he thinks about how much he needs space from Jack Zimmermann in order to figure out how to cope with Jack Zimmermann being back in his life, and then he thinks about how lonely Las Vegas is when you don't know anyone, and blurts, "Well, my place is just like, a twenty minutes walk away. I mean. I have a spare room, my place is huge, I basically wouldn't know you were even there if that's—"

Jack interrupts in a gentle voice. "I think a hotel would be best for the moment. Until I can find a place of my own."

Shit. Parse is fucking up already. Of course Jack needs his space. Why would he want to be around Parse for a moment longer than he needs to? "Yeah," Parse says faintly. "Right." Professional. He can totally do professional. "I'm not too sure because I've never had to use the hotels here, but you can use the internet at my place to find a place and we can call you a cab from there."

"Appreciate it," Jack says, nodding and turning to pick up a black wheeled suitcase that was nestled in front of Parse's car. He moves closer to Parse and freezes. "You live twenty minutes' walk away?"

Parse squints. "Yes?"

"Then why did you drive? The fans can't be that intense here?"

Parse bristles at the implication. Okay, so a lot of their attendance at games is from fans from outside the city coming to see their faves while on vacation, but that doesn't mean they don't have a loyal cohort of Ace fans who live close. "How am I supposed to show it off if I leave it at home?" he asks instead.

Jack wrinkles his nose a little. "I don't know why I expected you to have changed," he says.

It hits like a punch to the gut, but Parse breathes through it. _Professional. You're a fucking professional. Jack Zimmermann is a dick and you're much better off not exposed to his hockey robot crap and dysfunctional personality._ "Actually I grew a little taller," he says, tilting his chin upwards mulishly and turning on his heel to head for the sidewalk.

Jack says something under his breath that kind of sounds like _bullshit_ and _how can you stand there and lie to my face_.

Parse smothers a smile. Jack's a melodramatic little bastard and Parse—

Well. He missed him.

He's just not going to make the mistake this time of saying it to Jack's face. It's never a lie, but Jack always somehow seems to think it somehow is.

#

The walk is quiet. Parse is mostly biting his tongue because he has a thousand things to say to Jack still, but they're either unflattering or the words expose too much of himself and he has definitely had more than his fair share of that for one person for a lifetime. And if he enjoys the faces Jack makes when they approach the Hooters Casino hotel— and then go straight past it — Parse keeps that fact to himself.

His apartment building on Duke Ellington Way is still pretty luxurious from Parse's perspective, but that's maybe because he went from a cramped apartment in Poughkeepskie that had three bedrooms for the six of them, to a tinier apartment in Quebec City with his billet family, to a six bedroom apartment in Vegas that's just for himself (apart from when his sisters come by) and it feels massive, even though everyone seems to expect him to have a gated villa in Spring Valley or something. Jack's appraising noise when Parse draws up to his almost too-sensible looking apartment building is pretty satisfying.

It's a sensibly boring building from the outside, but it's one shared by a few local celebrities, so they have top notch security. Parse inclines his head and Jack follows him closely. It's still early in the day, so Wil is on duty. Parse and Wil exchange a nod, and Parse draws up to Wil's desk.

"This is Jack," Parse says, leaning over to pull up the folder that holds the building's approved entrance papers. "Jack, this is Wil, he's my door guy. If you need a door guarding, he's totally your guy."

Wil smacks the folder out of Parse's hands and rolls his eyes. "You better give me a better reference than that if I ever ask you for one."

"Jack Zimmermann," Parse says, ignoring Wil - his doorman has been working his apartment building for three decades. The idea of him working anywhere else is preposterous. "Two Ns at the end."

"I watch hockey, I know who he is," Wil says, rolling his eyes again like he has shares in the expression. He glances briefly at Jack. "Good trade for you, huh?"

Jack presses his mouth together into a line and nods like it hurts to do so.

"Add him to my access list, yeah?" Parse says, patting the desk twice and grinning at Wil.

"Oh, uh," Jack says, "I don't need you to bother, I don't think—"

And yet again, Parse feels like Jack's managed to punch him in the gut. He tries not to let the flinch of sadness show on his face. He's not sure the attempt is successful.  "I hold team bonding nights in my place sometimes," Parse says, as firmly as he knows how. "So you'll need to be on the list; it's quicker to do it now when Wil's less swamped."

"Oh," Jack says. "Sure. I mean, thanks." He leans awkwardly against the desk while Wil fills out a form and Parse signs it with a flourish, and he smiles awkwardly when Wil snaps a digital photo for the process, and he glances around the foyer. "This isn't what I expected when I pictured you living in Vegas."

"I wanted to just hire a room in Circus Circus, but I was too young, apparently," Parse says. He shrugs. "I like it. It's much bigger than it looks. Like me."

Wil and Jack make him hate his existence when they share a commiserative look.

"Shut up," Parse grouches.

"Nobody said anything," Wil says.

"You didn't need to," Parse sulks. Jack smothers a subdued smile.

Jack's quiet when he follows Parse to the elevators, and quiet when they ride up the ten floors, and Jack manages to restrain his look of non-surprise when Parse leads him to apartment number ninety. He smothers his own smile when he unlocks the door (thank goodness he never keeps his apartment keys tagged onto his car keys) and Jack makes an involuntary impressed noise at what's inside.

His apartment is fucking glorious, thank you very fucking much. It's beyond beautiful. Seguin and Ovechkin can keep their sprawling mansions; Parse's apartment is a piece of art.

"You weren't kidding about the size of this place, huh?" Jack says. He's abandoned his suitcase near the front door in favor of putting his hands in his pockets and walking forwards to stare shamelessly at Parse's place. Parse's smirk is epic. Yeah, he's got fucking _awesome_ taste, okay?

"The team keep saying I'm compensating for something," Parse says, watching Jack as he wanders towards Parse's sitting area like he can't help himself. His apartment is all open plan; large windows that show the spread of the heart of Vegas, the lights and the glamor displayed gloriously. At night, the city comes to life, and Parse can lose hours just watching his city shine. Parse can't resist adding, "They find it hard to believe that I'm a grower not a shower."

"Haha," Jack says, amicable, but he keeps his face turned away, his neck turning a little pink, and Parse is viciously pleased with that reaction, because that's something Jack knows for sure. Something secret between them. Fuck Jack if he thinks he's going to be able to erase it completely from existence.

It happened. It might not be Jack's proudest moments, and it might all be Parse's biggest regret beyond not shaking the truth of the drugs out of Jack, but they had a _thing,_ an amazing thing that burned brighter between them than Vegas' night lights, and Parse will be damned if he ever forgets that it was real.

Still, that small reminder is probably pushing things too far, and Parse is focusing on being a professional, he really is, so he takes a small step back. "If you want food while you're here there's sandwiches in the fridge. I hire a girl. Well. I say girl, she's twice my age and basically a mom—" Parse squints. "I basically hired a new mom."

Jack huffs a small noise which might have been a laugh in another life, and he turns to look at Parse. "How's your actual mom?"

"Oh, you know," Parse says airily, heading over to the sideboard where he keeps his spare keys and laptop. "Despairing of me loudly."

"Yeah…" Jack wanders over as Parse puts his laptop directly on the sideboard. Normally he sprawls out on the deep pile _Las Vegas Aces_ rug that dominates his sitting area, but he kind of wants Jack out of his personal space now, because it's starting to feel unreal. Jack being in his apartment is kind of something he's wanted desperately for the last few years, but he always imagined Jack being happier about it than he is, and it's messing Parse up. They both wait in silence for Parse's laptop to load, and then Jack unexpectedly says,  "I don't supposed you wanna fill me in on what happened last summer?"

Parse closes his eyes for a moment. "Oh fuck, not you too," Parse sighs, and refuses to turn around, because Jack probably has that same fucking pitying expression on his face most everyone who knows him has used on him for months, and Parse can't stand seeing it again, especially on Jack's face.

"Been getting hassled over it, huh?" Jack says gently, instead of the admonishment Parse is expecting.

"Everyone and their mother has been chirping me," Parse sighs. "Everyone _and_ my rent-a-mom." It's probably because he's not facing Jack that he adds in a more muted volume, "I didn't do it. I didn't do what they said, not to the extent they said, it was just—  I was drunk, off my skull, and there was nudity, but I didn't— I _wouldn't,_ " and maybe his voice is raising in volume, because he's agitated, because what he did _was_ fucking bad but it was just really damn stupid, that's all, and he hates everything, and he's still paying for the incident, and the idea that Jack believes the press, _believes_ that he would do that sort of thing, makes him suddenly frantic and agitated and his fingers clench on his keyboard like if he doesn't hold on he'll fall apart.

"I know, Kenny," Jack says, soft, _so_ soft, and the rage just fucking dissipates like it always does, Jack Zimmermann and his fucking Kent Parson whispering ways. "I know you wouldn't."

Parse shouldn't feel so relieved that Jack's said that, but he is. He can breathe again.

"It's the drunk part that concerns me," Jack says next, though, slow and determined, and fuck him. Really, just _fuck him._

"You'd fucking think that," Parse mutters and refuses to turn around on the grounds of he may try and punch Jack in his stupidly handsome face. "It wasn't a problem."

"I thought that about me," Jack says, mildly,

Parse thinks about it. Thinks about the rumors about their rumors, and how he laughed off the reports of Jack and narcotics as exaggeration, as the press _looking_ for something that wasn't there. Fuck Jack for trying to make Parse think their problems were _anywhere_ near similar. "It wasn't regular, then or now," Parse says, snapping the words out like they're bullets. "There was something I was trying to cope with but nothing worked, so for a couple of weeks — just two weeks, I swear — I turned to alcohol and it was a stupid fucking decision and I've been paying for it since, okay?" He grimaces at the flash of his own reflection in his laptop screen. "Everyone thinks I'm some sort of juvenile frat party boy," he concludes, in a semi whine.

"Wow," Jack says. "Must be so terrible for you."

And okay, yeah, in the wake of Jack's admittance to rehab, none of the papers had run with the truth, favoring hard narcotics over the actual overdose of anti-anxiety medication, and people still disparagingly float the term _addict_ when Jack's had any spate of zero points longer than two games, and Parse feels bad for comparing the run of press calling him out for acting like a child to the complete misfire of information in the wake of Jack's overdose. He frowns while he brings up a hotel price comparison site, because fuck if he'll let Jack pay full value at any Vegas hotel. He'll have to have a word with the Aces' PR team later; they're supposed to help new players find accommodation for their first few weeks.

"I'll talk to the team, make sure they know it was prescription medication," Parse says, as he inputs the arena's zipcode into the search bar; without a car, Jack will need to be as close to the hotel as possible. "I mean, I don't think anyone who meets you for longer than a week really _believes_ the cocaine rumors, but—"

"You'd be surprised," Jack huffs sourly. While Parse searches for a good deal, Jack peers around Parse's apartment, unable to help himself. "Your uh, decorating scheme is, uh— Unique?"

"You can say shit," Parse says. "It's what you're thinking. FYI, you're wrong, I have impeccable taste." He smirks and doesn't look up from the screen to add, "Besides, do you have room to speak? Didn't your fans vote you as the Falconer most likely to look like they're about to rob a Burger King?"

Jack shrugs. "I think your taste levels are still more suspect than mine."

That earns Jack one of Parse's best scowls. "I object."

There's a smile in Jack's voice when he says, "Well, you are often objectionable."

Parse does look up from the screen then to glare at Jack. "Do you relentlessly chirp _everyone_ who rescues you from mostly abandoned parking lots and dangerous Las Vegas streets?"

"Not everyone," Jack says, and just beams at him humorlessly before leaning over and glancing at the screen. "That one looks okay." He pulls out a cell phone, dials the hotel, and refuses all of Parse's half-hearted offers of hospitality to go walk to the hotel. Parse watches him go, almost struck dumb, Jack's quiet "bye" hanging in the air.

Parse slumps down onto his rug and flops backwards, staring at his high ceiling and the spiral of glow-in-the-dark stars he stuck up there when he first moved in, nineteen and too young and terrified and missing Jack like he'd lost a limb.

Jack was just in his apartment. Jack is on his _team._ None of it feels real. Parse turns his head to glance across to the sparse meters of flooring that Jack walked along, the small cubic space of air Jack inhabited for barely fifteen minutes. Parse would think he'd imagined it all, apart from his chest is aching in a hollow way, and he can see his cellphone lit up with about a million notifications.

Kit wanders over to join him on the rug for a moment. As Parse reaches over to his cat, needing to feel more anchored to his safe space; she obligingly rubs her chin against Parse's extended fingers, but then turns around and farts in his face before fleeing.

Parse sighs. It feels like some sort of too-apt metaphor.

#

Parse remembers about Nova's barbecue in time to scramble up from his pity party and grab an Uber to the arena to rescue his car. Half the team are there already, and Parse gives Nova's wife Ella the bottle of wine he picked up last minute from a gas station and a wet kiss on her cheek which gets him a giggle from Ella and a warning slide of a finger across Nova's throat.

Nova's fridge has a whole shelf full of Orange Gatorade, which makes Parse smile. He takes a quick photo of it and sends it to his sisters' group thread; Kylie instantly sends back a photo she's sneaked of Krista's failed self-tanning experiment with the caption SAME COLOR!!!! The thread explodes in a stream of Krista threatening Kylie's well-being. Parse laughs at his sisters and pockets his phone, and makes a beeline for Nova's three kids. They're probably on his emotional level.

After the children are sent to bed, and Parse has spent some obligatory time captaining some of the rookies milling around, Parse snags another bottle of Gatorade and heads for the loungers at the bottom of Nova's small backyard.

Nova and Ella compromised on a small house in the Vegas suburbs, smaller than either of them wanted but with a shorter commute so Nova could spend more time with the kids. It's not like when Nova played back-up in Chicago and the GMs asked the players to live an hour's drive away from the arena so to avoid the fans. Vegas is a much more chill location. Parse lies down on one of the loungers and waits for Nova to come speak to him.

Nova doesn't disappoint and joins Parse on the lounger next to him only a couple minutes later. Nova is one of those contradictions, a chatty introvert, and he can only manage a small amount of social interaction before having to withdraw from the crowd. He married an extrovert — team parties are an excellent compromise. Nova and Ella clearly have that relationship compromising thing _down_. Parse would say he's not jealous of their maturity but that would be a lie.

Then again, Nova is wearing a t-shirt saying ACES BUSINESS IS NUN OF YOUR BUSINESS because he's a terrible friend, a _terrible_ one.

"I don't even want to know where you got that," Parse says, and Nova just beams.

"Hey," Nova says. He sips on one of Ella's infamous-among-the-Aces cocktails. Parse learned the hard way to avoid even getting one; he doesn't have the self control to sip, and if you chug one of Ella's cocktails, you pay for it in the morning. Parse wants to be clear for the game against Dallas, especially if he has to find some way to send a couple of ankle pucks Tyler Seguin's way in revenge for Seguin hitting on Jack's mom.

Oh god, Jack. Jack Zimmermann. He's back in Parse's life and it's too soon, he's not ready. Parse always meant to try again, to let Jack know how much he missed him, but he meant to do it when his life was in order. When he had a life and career he could throw up high and go _see, see how well I did without you, Jack. See how much I didn't need you._

"Hey," Parse repeats, because Nova does this shit all the time. Prompts Parse into speaking, and then Parse spills his guts and says things he doesn't mean to, _dammit,_ Nova. He clears his throat. "Do you ever wonder what happened to all the Sour Patch parents?"

"I always assumed they were trapped in the factory and forced to procreate so we can consume their kids," Nova says. "It's a nice night, don't you think?" Nova's gaze lingers fondly where his wife is arm wrestling Curly and Coop, apparently beating both. Parse makes a mental note to check in on their nutrition plans. It's too easy at this time of year to lose weight, and he needs his team fighting fit for the playoffs.

Parse's stomach churns. He needs the Aces to secure a playoff berth. He's pretty damn sure he will be traded if they don't get one.

"Sure is a nice night," Parse says, refusing to play Nova's game.

"Yup," Nova says, drawing out the single syllable.

Parse narrows his eyes, but Nova's still not looking at him, and shit, the bastard is a fucking genius at wringing things out of Parse that Parse doesn't want to say.

"We used to fuck," Parse says, surprising himself. It comes out like an unexpected bullet, like a gun neither of them knew existed accidentally discharged between them. Parse's mouth is dry. The sky is a rich dark blue. Vegas nights rarely go fully dark.

Nova purses his mouth. "I would have remembered something like that, surely?" His voice is teasing.

"Not _you_ and I _we,_ " Parse says. "Uh. Zimmermann. Zimmermann and I."

Nova hums under his breath and Parse fucking wants to stab himself in the forehead because shit, he's not just outed himself, he's fucking outed Jack a little, and that's a really shitty thing to do.

Also, yes, rewind, he's just outed himself to Nova. After years of pretending to be straight. Parse is probably the stupidest goddamned person on the planet.

"I presume you mean while you were in the Q," Nova says. There's no emotion in his voice, and Parse hates that he can't tell what Nova is thinking. He's probably going to be the first hockey player to die in a fight with a goalie. Not even a fight on the ice. In a tiny Vegas backyard out in the too-warm suburbs. "You didn't have time during practice."

"Well, I did walk him back to my place after you all left," Parse says.

Nova drops all pretence of maintaining a strict expression and he turns to glare at Parse. "What?"

"Chillax, that was just to call a hotel. The other stuff… the Q," Parse says. "Um. Don't tell anyone. About me, but especially about Zimms, he's— he's straight. It was just blowing off steam, y'know?"

"Zimms is straight," Nova says, very slowly, "but you're… not?"

Parse feels dizzy. "Um—"

" _Chillax,_ " Nova says, echoing Parse from before. "I'd already guessed it, but thanks for trusting me enough to say it out loud."

"Guessed it, huh?" Parse says, squinting at Nova in disbelief. Hardly anyone ever guesses it, which has earned him a fair few surprised punches to the face, and not all from closeted "straight" guys denying their orientations with a bit of handy violence.

"Kent," Nova says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle when he says, "my wife was a glamor model. Do you know how many former and current Aces I've literally punched in the groin for staring at Ella's chest?"

"Um. A few?"

"Try everyone but you," Nova says. "And, well, now Zimmermann. But that's because he hasn't had the opportunity. If he comes limping into practice one day, you'll know what happened."

"Hey, I've stared at your wife's chest before," Parse protests.

"The time she wore a shirt to our game with your face on doesn't count." Nova wrinkles his nose. "Worse, she only wore that because I lost a bet to her. She wore it to bed, Kent. First time I've never been able to get it up. I thought your face broke my dick."

"Alas, that’s probably not the first time my face has broken something," Parse sighs and resists the urge to rub his twice-broken nose.

Nova laughs, and then sobers. "Are we gonna have a problem? You and Zimmermann?"

Parse shrugs. "We had a talk. He apologized for his behavior, I apologized for mine, we decided to be professional and focus on the game."

"Hmm."

Parse levers himself up a little from the lounger to glare at Nova. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

Parse narrows his eyes and puts his best Captain face on. "Nova."

"Parse _,_ " Nova echoes in a similar tone before sighing. "Just— every time we've played the Falconers since Zimmermann joined them, you've gone a bit— Um—"

"Spit it out."

"Stupid. You've gone a bit stupid."

Parse can't really argue with that. "So?" he says, testily.

"I'm just saying… it's okay if you can't handle this," Nova says. "This is a big thing. Zimmermann— whatever recreational thing you did, you two used to be a big deal, and everyone knows it kind of fucked both of you up. Even though you've been nothing but _incredible_ since your debut with us here. You're the fucking Ace of the entire National Hockey League, Kent. So if you're rattled by this, it's okay. Anyone would be."

"Anyone," Parse says, "is not me. I'm going to be fucking _excellent._ If him nearly dying didn't break me, him having the audacity to live in my vicinity can't be _anywhere_ near as difficult."

"Good attitude," Nova allows. "I mean, you're off your rocker and you're probably wrong, but hey, good attitude."

"You know I'm all about positive visualization, baby," Parse says. "Hey, what do you do to teammates who positively visualize your wife naked? Asking for a friend."

Nova balls up the fist not clenching a drink.

"Duly noted," Parse says.

#

Today apparently has a theme of four words. As in, everyone seems to want to talk to him only using four words. The universe, Parse thinks, is weird like that.

Kit's offering, _"Miaow, miaow, MIAOW, MIAOW_ " is a little hostile, but as it seems to mean she's out of food, Parse can handle that for sure.

Krista is the only one of his sisters to text him that morning: GET ME ZIMMERMANN'S SOCKS. Parse isn't touching that with a barge pole.

Wil shouts "Crush Dallas dead, Kent!" as Parse swings out the front door. Parse _plans_ to.

As Parse drives to work, his text-to-voice app built into his car awkwardly sounds out a text from an unknown number: HEY YOUR MOM'S HOT. Goddammit, stupid sexy Seguin.

When Parse gets to the morning skate, optional being interpreted correctly by the whole team as mandatory, Parse only hesitates for a moment at the Aces' locker room threshold, staring blanking where Jack's dark head hovers around where Blitzer used to be.

Jack greets him with four words as he passes by Parse. "Professional and focused, yeah?"

Parse nods, because that's the only thing he can do if he doesn’t want to scare his team with the response he wants to make.

Shit, Parse barely knows which response he _does_ want to make.

He thinks there might be yelling involved.

#

As it turns out there totally _is_ yelling still involved, because he and Jack are just as hot shit on the ice as everyone remembers from the Q. There was always a lot of yelling then, too. Just not the kind of yelling that makes Parse feel guilty about afterwards. The fun kind. Parse's four-word theme of the day disintegrates into a theme much more common: four-lettered words.

"Fucking get me the fucking puck, dipshit," Parse snarls, swerving around Chucky and Drains during the mêlée of a session-ending four-on-four scrimmage.

"Fuck you, fucking get in the fucking dirt first," Jack yells back. "Trying to fucking shoot from the gutter, you fucking kidding me?"

"That's dog shit, I can score from anywhere past the blueline, fucking anywhere—"

"Your accuracy drops to ten percent from the edges, don't fucking tell me you wanna dredge ten more shot attempts out of your fucking ass—"

"A clean shot is a thousand times better than a fucking rebound garbage goal—"

"You can go for your pretty boy wraparounds and dangles when we're two goals up, asshole. Until then, fucking get to the shit damn crease."

"Don't fucking tell me what to do—"

"They expect you on the perimeter, not to get in and fucking dirty. You fucking know Klingberg's gonna hound your ass if you hug the wall any goddamn more this season, and just because the Benns show off when you're around doesn't mean you should fucking give into it so _fucking get me the puck at the blueline and get into fucking gear._ Fuck, my mom can shoot better than you can right now."

Parse shoves right up into Jack's chest, glaring at him. "I'll fuck your fucking mom."

Jack gestures with his stick at Nova, who's shut everyone out for practically the whole practice. "If you can't fucking score on your own goalie how the fuck do you think you're gonna score with my mom?"

" _Ahem,_ " Coach Rolston says, pushing bodily in-between them, and glaring. Parse falls mutinously silent and side-eyes Jack, who's breathing heavily and glaring at Parse. Parse returns the glare with a side-order of _fucking fuck you too Zimmermann._  "Are we going to have a problem tonight?"

"No," Parse says, scowling sullenly when he realizes Jack's echoed him with the no. "Just blowing off some steam, Coach."

Rolston grunts in acknowledgement. "Zimmermann's right about you hugging the Dallas boards too much," Rolston says, before skating off to shout at the rookies who thought Parse and Jack were a sideshow attraction, not fellow practicing teammates.

"Fuck," Parse says, with feeling. "Well, we fucked up _professional and focused,_ huh?"

Jack growls, "Teething problems, I guess," and bares his teeth in a scowl as he skates off.

That's another four word set Parse hasn't missed at all: Jack Zimmermann's mood swings.

#

The mood is electric, the T-Mobile arena fucking buzzing, and Parse knows why. He almost has a migraine _and_ a high competing all at once for attention in his brain, to the point that he has to stop for a moment and think about any chance that he's hit his head recently. There was a fucking borderline legal shoulder hit three games back against St. Louis, but Parse doesn't think he has a concussion.

He has emotional whiplash, that's what he does have. Dallas hit the ice on fire, knocking Nova off guard and stealing a goal fourteen seconds into the first period, but that goal seemed to knock a switch on for the whole team — Nova's blocked twenty-eight shots since that goal, and apparently what Dallas feared and Coach Rolston hoped have both been affirmed at the same time.

Because Parse and Jack's chemistry on the ice is fucking _electric._

Parse is high on the adrenaline buzz, high-fiving any Ace he can reach as _Let's go Aces, let's go!_ rings in his ears. He's already mentally reliving the two goals Jack assisted on. And that fucking beautiful shorthanded breakaway near the end of the first period, Jack single-handedly scoring while Curly cooled his heels in the penalty box for an un-fucking-fair hooking call? Amazing, amazing, amazing. Parse fucking loves hockey.

So with Parse in such a good mood, Jack of course is pissed off.

"What the hell was that fuckery about," Jack demands.

Parse's good mood evaporates instantly. He stomps to his alcove and aggressively starts removing the tape on his socks, because his socks have been constantly slipping and he doesn't need the fucking distraction. He knows what Jack means, but they're five goals to one at the end of the second fucking period, Jack needs to lighten up. "I had a fucking shot, I took it."

Jack scowls at him and just as aggressively grabs a roll of tape to fix the new stick the equipment manager handed him in the middle of the second period. "Just get me the puck next time, you piece of shit."

"What asshole died and made you king of douche mountain?" Parse bites into his tape without fishing into his equipment bag for his scissors; Jack makes a disgusted noise and looks away. "I fucking had a path."

"You had a fucking pisshole width of a path," Jack corrects, and goddamn he's beautiful when he's angry, Parse thinks dazedly, before shoving that away because there's still a whole period of the game left and he's only annoyed Seguin twice all night beyond the goals. "I had the whole fucking left side of the net open."

"You controlling dipshit, my accuracy—"

"—means fuck-all nothing if you're busy being a possessive assface. You knew I was open."

"I'm just not fucking used to you being there," Parse yells. "Give me more than a fucking week to adjust, you Canadian bastard."

Jack side-eyes him and huffs loudly, and when Marin turns up at the door to ask Jack to come for a brief interview, there's an audible noise in the locker room. Parse finally feels like he can remember how to breathe again and he takes in a deep breath, rubbing at his sweaty forehead and trying not to think about how right Jack was about being too possessive with the puck.

"Dude," Nova says, coming and sitting down next to Parse. Still in full goalie gear, Nova resembles a crab when he walks. Normally it makes Parse smile, but he guesses no one's in the mood for that. "What the fuck?"

Parse glares at him irritably, and then notices a lot of his team are looking at him oddly. "What?" He flushes at the way Nova is looking at him, because Nova knows about his past with Jack, and what if Nova says something now that Parse isn't ready for his team to hear?

"You two have been amazing so far. _Amazing._ " Nova pulls an impressed face. "I can see why you were called drift compatible, dude, _absolutely._ But off the ice—" Nova shudders. "You're _way_ not drift compatible at all, are you?"

"Dude, of course we are," Parse sniffs. "We get on fucking _fine._ "

"Um," Chucky pipes up tentatively, "you, uh, call that amount of shouting _fine_? You must think we get on _amazingly_."

"We do," Parse says. And then he pauses, and realizes, and resists the urge to facepalm. Shit, from the outside it must look ridiculous as hell. Even Parse used to think Jack hated him at first, but that was before he learned that Jack yelling at you meant Jack appreciated you. Jack only sniped at people he cared about. Compliments were for later, in intimate spaces, with Jack's breath warm on his skin, his hands low on Parse's back and _shit._ Fuck. He needs to focus on the present, and on calming his fucking team down.  "The shouting… that _is_ me and Zimmermann getting on. That's how we get on. It's fucking dysfunctional as shit, but you get us on ice, and—" He waves his hands in the air because he can't think of the word.

"Magic," Nova supplies.

"Ex-fucking-actly," Parse says. " _Magic._ " He slumps, suddenly thinking it through. "But if it's affecting the team dynamic, shit. I don't— I've just been so glad to be back on the ice with him, I guess I forgot having your Captain screaming his shit out every other minute's probably fucking disquieting. Shit. _Shit._ I'm so—"

"Uh, if you're about to say sorry with the plays you and Zimmermann have been making," Baller interrupts, "then you need to stop. If screaming at each other like hockey moms on rival teams gets us to the playoffs, fucking have at it."

"It's just kind of weird," Curly says. "When we were on the Canadian team, Zimmermann was, like, a gentleman. He was never like this."

Parse finishes re-taping his socks and he shrugs stiffly. "I kind of bring out the worst in him, I guess," he says.

"The best too," Nova says. "Am I fucking glad he got traded here, even I couldn't have stopped that shorthander."

"You could," Parse says. "He always goes top-shelf-right on breakaways."

Nova finds himself nodding and then he freezes. "Couldn't you have told me that the first fucking time we faced the Falconers?

Parse blinks. Several times. Then he winces and looks at Nova apologetically.

"He makes you fucking stupid, doesn't he?" Nova says, dropping his voice so only Parse can hear.

Parse smiles sadly. "He always fucking has. Keep me right, yeah?"

Nova nods. "I've got your back, Kent Parson. You're all right."

"C'mon," Parse says. "We've gotta pay Dallas back for one of their certain center's inappropriate mom comments."

Nova waddles to his feet, and Parse finds himself able to grin at his goalie's crabwalk this time. Nova looks disgruntled. "Seguin text you too, huh?"

There are a number of similarly annoyed expressions in the vicinity.

"Let's go fuck them up, boys," Parse yells cheerfully. "Let's go kick 'em so hard that we won't be the only ones seeing Stars, yeah?"

"Fuck yeah," one of the rookies yells enthusiastically.

Nova nudges Parse. "You know that's your fault. These boys were all clean spoken before we got them."

Parse levels Nova with an unimpressed look. "We're fucking hockey players. We only speak two languages by default: Bad English and profanity."

Nova says something in Russian with a grin.

"See," Parse says. "Proved my point. That was profanity."

Nova narrows his eyes. "How can you be so sure?"

"You're a hockey player, your mouth was open, and you were speaking."

"Fair enough," Nova allows.

#

They win, it's ridiculous, and it kind of just means the Benns were having an off-night (it happens, alas — the two Dallas-playing siblings are fucking impossible when they're on form, but when they tank, they tank _hard_ ) but Parse will relish their 8-2 victory regardless for a long, long time. It's a top ten game of his life for sure, and considering his three Stanley cups, with two of those scraped in game seven, that's saying a lot.

They go to the Bunkhouse Saloon because it's Curly's turn to choose a victory destination, and Curly's weirdly fucking into all that cowboy shit, and Parse complains right up until he sees Jack's expression when they enter the bar and remembers how much Jack likes country music too. There's a live band playing, a big enough booth already set aside for twenty-plus huge hockey players, and even the staggering amount of meat they order from the crazy-hot waitress isn't enough to close the kitchen and get them barred.

The evening maybe starts to turn in a wrong direction when Buch decides to buy everyone a shot to celebrate Zimmermann's first goal as an Ace.

Parse flashes back to his uncomfortable conversation with Jack the day before and he leans over the table. Jack looks at Parse dubiously.

"Are you sure you should—?" Parse starts, but Jack's eyes narrow and his fingers curl possessively around the shot Buch passes him. Parse sighs, shrugs, and leans back in the booth. He tried. Jack's obviously still a contrary bastard who doesn't take kindly to orders. Being his Captain is going to go _great._

Parse does what he does when he's feeling a little down — he texts his sisters with something hilarious, because he's funny shit and _someone_ is going to appreciate him tonight if it kills him. "If a girl says no to a date because we wouldn't work out," Parse types into his sisters' group thread, "is she politely saying _no,_ or rudely saying no by chirping my lack of muscles? Because I work out a LOT."

"Haha compare your abs to Zimmermann's and get back to me with how much you work out," Kennedy responds, almost immediately, because his middle sister has no fucking life. Parse almost lifts his shirt up right in the bar until he remembers removing clothing in public is what got him into all of this mess with his public regard, and he resolves to sneakily getting a shot of Jack changing clothes later. For his sisters, of course. Not for any sort of personal use. Goddammit, Parse's thoughts are veering into creepy territory. His brain needs to knock that shit off, stat. That's the kind of thinking that's gotten him into all the trouble he has in Vegas. Ha, and they thought athletes might be tempted purely by all the gambling. Parse likes to prove _everyone_ wrong. It's a bad habit.

And the thing everyone's expecting him to currently do is fuck up in public again and embarrass the team. Parse frowns and starts clambering over Curly's lap. Curly laughs and shoves at him. "Gonna get something stronger," he tells the table, and Jack flickers a worried look at him. Parse glowers back, because seriously, fuck Jack Zimmermann, _fuck_ him.

Parse lingers at the bar and pretends to be ordering something complex, and uses a trick Kennedy taught him, for when she did a year teaching in Japan and got along better with the teachers when they thought she was drinking with them: he orders a glass of sparkling water with a lime wedge shoved on the side and a pink paper umbrella bobbing in it alongside a large amount of ice. He sips at the water through a straw and shoves at his team until they let him perch at the edge of the booth, and resolutely ignores the way his teammates get steadily drunker, including Jack, because what the fuck does Parse have to do with any of them anyway, he's just their fucking Captain.

Okay, so he's kind of in a terrible, awful, very bad, no good mood. Sure. Whatever. He's had to mask his emotions plenty of times before. Mostly in his first couple of years with the Aces, when he was so angry, all the fucking time. Fuck it, he should be fucking _happy._ He's just won a game against the current conference leaders. He's the Captain of a Stanley Cup winning franchise. Jack Zimmermann is on his team. He's got everything he's always fucking wanted, isn't that fine and fucking dandy.

Parse's phone beeps and it's a text from Nova: YOUR FACE IS SCARING THE ROOKIES.

Parse flips Nova the bird, and wrinkles his face into a worse expression, because his driving license says he's twenty-nine, but it's a lie, he's obviously still approximately four years old.

#

Uber's never a good idea when his team are tipsy, too many drivers willing to take photos of them looking dumb,; it's why Marin in PR set up an account with a local cab firm for the team. The universe hates him, or karma is real — Parse spends an hour responsibly loading his team into cabs to get them safely home, and then ends up lumped with one of his team waiting for another car to become free, because even Vegas runs out of cabs when you start shoving large drunken hockey players into them two at a time at stupid o' clock in the morning. He sighs.

And it's either the universe or karma or probably Nova that's engineered the last teammate stuck with Parse to be Jack. Parse maneuvers Jack to a wall to lean against as they wait and manfully resists the stream of profanity of how fucking unfair his life is, all the general fucking hardship of being a millionaire superstar.

Jack, after his stupid fucking concern in Parse's apartment, is definitely drunk. At least he's not a touchy drunk like he used to be, and wow Parse was an idiot to not see how much Jack was going off the rails back then. He thought Jack was just worried about them being separated. Parse was obviously so fucking wrong about that, he feels stupid for assuming that what was ripping Parse apart inside was the same thing wrecking Jack.

What seems to be annoying drunk Jack is the trade.

"I got them a fucking Cup," Jack sighs, kicking at the wall and glaring out at the bright lights of Vegas like they're personally offending him. "Fucking first one in fucking franchise history."

"I'm really not a good influence on your language, am I?" Parse asks.

Jack ignores him, because he's drunk or because he realizes it's a rhetorical question. "You know I actually thought the Falconers were gonna keep me forever. I'm a fucking idiot." Jack groans and runs a hand over his face and keeps it there.

"Nah, dude. Everyone thinks that, I think. Fucking trades." Parse sighs.

"Sorry about Blitz. He was good. I hated playing against him."

"You're still gonna have to, we face Providence in like, three weeks."

"Fuuuuck," Jack sighs and his hands slide off his face to fall uselessly at his sides. "I forgot about that."

"It's cool. They've not faced us on ice both together before, but you have all the inside knowledge. Snow. He's too fucking handsome to not have a decent weakness, right?"

"Well, you can always crash into him again," Jack says, sounding kind of pissed off, and Parse grimaces. When he plays anywhere in the East Conference, someone tends to call him the Kreider of the West. It's not Parse's fault per se, he likes to play in the dirty areas of the game, and people target him for his success. Sometimes he just gets tripped into the goalies, okay? Kind of a lot.

"Please, St. Martin pushed me. I fell. It was an accident."

"Sure," Jack says. "You accidentally fell skates first into him."

"Right, you really wanna start picking apart our flaws on ice? Because your fucking track record isn't perfect, Zimms. Not by a long shot. Tell me, did you sleep well the night you gave Ender a career-ending concussion?"

Jack's expression turns heated and his hands curl instantly into fists and Parse tilts his chin up, because let Jack fucking punch him in the face if he wants to. It might do him some good.  Might do them both some good. Maybe some pain coming his way from Jack might dispel the feelings that have been bubbling up in him since the trade.

Unfortunately Jack's brief urge towards violence doesn't manifest in anything but Jack making a noise of frustration and sinking against the wall again, eyes fixed on the distance like it's done him irreparable harm.

And then Jack says something that hits Parse worse than a punch ever would.

"I can't fucking believe I ever thought I was in love with you."

Parse can't breathe. It's a sucker punch to the gut. He wants to go ask Bellsy for a concussion check, or to ask if words can give you a concussion, because right now, Parse would believe that. He opens his mouth to say something, and is absolutely lost for words. There isn't even a swear word eloquent enough to cover what he's feeling.

"I was wrong about that, FYI," Jack continues. "I mean. I thought I was. I wanted to be, at one point, I think, but I wasn't."

Parse listens even though he doesn't want to, he can't listen to this, it fucking _hurts_ , because Jack thought he was in _love_ with Parse? And he wasn't, because of course he couldn't be, of course it's fucking _impossible_ for anyone to love Parse, that's just a damned true fact of his existence. He's just not someone anyone can love, Parse is pretty damn sure of that. Parse doesn't know what's worse — is it that Jack thought he was in love, and acted the way he did back then regardless? Or is it Jack's conviction that it wasn't love at all?

Jack continues, either oblivious to Parse's distress, or cognizant and vicious with it. "I fell in love at college for the first time, you know? Exactly how it's fucking supposed to be."

"What happened?" The words come out of Parse's mouth, even though he doesn't want them to. He doesn't recognize his own voice. The idea of Jack and some faceless girl, smiling and happy and holding each other— Parse wants to scream at the visual his brain is happily providing, but apparently that two word question is all his mouth is going to manage for now.

Jack smiles ruefully and there isn't a hint of amusement in it. "You always think with something as dramatic as first love, that things — if they're unlucky enough to end — are gonna end with a bang."

Parse swallows back, _like finding them unconscious on the floor nearly dying and thinking it's all your fault_?

"Turns out, something like that can just slip away on you." Jack's voice is thick with loathing. "One delayed phone call leads to three. One lie about an injury being… not so bad… leads to more. And then he learned from the _news_ that I had a concussion, one I'd had for weeks and hadn't told him about, and— I guess that was the step too far."

Parse thinks his heart might be actually broken, instead of just metaphorically shattered, because it stops at the word _he._ Jack was in love, and that person wasn't Parse. Parse had accepted that would happen one day, but he'd assumed it wouldn't be with him, because Jack was straight. But if Jack fell in love with another guy… then it's not as simple as Parse's gender being the issue.

If Jack couldn't fall in love with Parse back then, then it's all down to Parse.

Parse is who Jack can't love.

That's a kick in the head for sure.

Jack's voice is kinder, softer, when he lilts, "Kenny?"

Parse wants to dissolve at the sound of it, Jack's stupid Disney prince voice and his sad fucking eyes and really fucking capable hands, so soft both on the ice and off it, and Parse thought losing Jack was bad when he could blame the fuckery of being born a cis guy. Now he knows _he_ wasn't good enough, for his personality, for who he is…

It's a fucking nuclear bomb to the heart.

"I," Parse manages, and his voice wobbles, and he really hopes Jack is more than three sheets to the wind and won't really remember any of this. "I'm your Captain now, Jack. I know that sucks hairy balls for you."

"It's not so bad," Jack says, his voice still drenched in Disney levels of softness, _fuck._

"And as your Captain, you can't fucking pretend about your injuries, okay? You ever lie to me about the severity of a wrist sprain or a concussion, so help me, I will deliver you back to Providence in a fucking Fed Ex box. One of the fucking A4 ones." Parse glares at Jack, who just nods earnestly like a freaking _puppy_ , and ugh, Parse is still fucking gone on the guy, it's fucking ridiculous.

Because Jack wasn't in love with Parse. But that hadn't stopped the inverse being true. When they were in the Q, Parse loved Jack more than he's ever loved anyone, and to learn it wasn't returned, even in the _slightest_? Isn't that abso-fucking-lutely perfect.

"I'm, um. Not very good at that," Jack says. "The, uh. Talking thing. Especially about things that hurt."

"Well," Parse says, "figure it out, dipshit."

Jack smothers what looks like an actual smile, the drunken idiot. "You always call me the sweetest things."

#

Parse doesn't know how else to solve problems. He's such a professional and relentless dickhead that any time he's solved a serious problem in his life, it's occurred with a side order of total assholery. But why mess with a fucking working system, huh? If being an asshole is his way to solve problems, than Parse has no problem being the biggest asshole to get what he wants.

The roadie is a perfect time to enact project: overexposure to Jack's annoying face until Parse realizes he doesn't need to be upset about Jack never being in love with him back then.

Because that's the problem he needs to solve. Every time he thinks about Jack now it stings worse than it ever did. So what if Parse was stupid enough to be in love with someone who didn't love him back? All Parse has to do is overexpose himself to Jack's boring, annoying self until he remembers why it's a _compliment_ that Jack didn't love him. Yeah.

Parse drops in to see Marin in her office, flashes his best media smile at her, promises to do a handful of media appearances he doesn't want to, and comes away firmly successful. Two days later, and the proof that his plan is going to work is impossible to miss.

Jack stares at him across the hotel room, a skeptical expression firmly on his face.

"Hey, roomie," Parse greets, saluting him. He's reclining on the bed nearest the window, knowing that always used to be Jack's favorite. Hell, Jack's not been making this trade easy on Parse, so why should Parse make it easy for Jack?

Jack pauses at the corner of the room, like he's just been confronted by a row of journalists shoving microphones and cameras into his face. Startled rabbits in headlights look approachable compared to Jack Zimmermann's face after he's been surprised by something. "The CBA agreement reached after the last lockout states that players—"

"—must be given a single hotel room unless they waive the right," Parse says, and waves a hand airily. The room's sole remote control is in that hand. That's by design. Parse knows exactly how to wind Jack Zimmermann up, and by the tense set of his jaw, the same things can set him off. Controlling what TV channel they watched during their shared time in the Q was a guaranteed way to coax Jack into a violent, messy wrestling match. Usually with a happy ending involved somewhere for at least one of them.

Parse's idea of problem solving is a little skewed. Probably. Well, he kind of missed out on the whole college and whatever that made regular people learn how to be mature. He's having to make up this whole life thing on the fly.

"I didn't waive anything," Jack says through clenched teeth.

Parse grabs his tablet from beside him and tosses it over to the spare bed. Jack stiffly walks over to it, more a reflection on his mood than exhaustion. They've had a couple of off days, and only one mandatory (sorry, "optional") skate, which is great because this upcoming roadie is an eleven game stinker. Jack looks down at the image and his shoulders sag. "I can't fucking believe you can still fake my signature," Jack says, gripping the tablet firmly and shaking his head.

"Ha, well, your autograph is all over eBay," Parse says, shrugging. "C'mon, man. This is a rite of passage for the Aces. If you don't get a roomie, the hazing is worse, believe me, I've seen it, it's not pretty. Feel lucky you got me, Haymaker snores. C'mon, roomie. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Last time you said that we went on a day tournament over the border and nearly got arrested for underage drinking," Jack says, still sounding and looking wary.

"Eh, that's America's stupid drinking age problem," Parse says, waving the remote control airily again. Jack tracks the movement, glances briefly over to where the TV is playing a documentary on teenage cheerleaders, glances back at Parse's hand and narrows his eyes.

"You are American," Jack says, slowly.

"And you're a Canadian with a giant hockey stick up his ass," Parse responds, just as slowly.

"Eh, it's the national pastime, I'm just being patriotic," Jack says, and the chirping seems to level him a little; he turns to tug his suitcase further into the room, and he settles on the free bed near the bathroom with a dubious side-glare at Parse being on the better bed.

"Mm, but did you have to stick it in blade first?"

Jack barks out a soft laugh, and doesn't turn around while he quickly unpacks his case into the drawers. Parse never bothers, because what's the point on a roadie this long, just live out the fucking case, why not? He doesn't complain about Jack's weird tic, though. Besides, Jack bends over to fill the bottom drawer, and that's still as good a view as it used to be.

Jack sits on his bed, checks his phone for the schedule, and does that thing where he sits and squares his shoulders, obviously braving himself to say something. Parse lets him fucking stew, because, well, he is kind of an asshole.

"Just to let you know," Jack says eventually, voice slightly stiff and awkward. "I, ah. I won't be drinking with the team again. It, uh. I don't like the kind of person that I become with alcohol, so, I'll still come to team outings, but I won't be drinking."

"Dude, it's your body, your decision what to put in it," Parse says, and then has a fucking flashback to a moment in their summer together, before the draft, when Jack was rather, uh, _into_ Parse's body, and now he's fucking blushing bright enough for Jack to need sunglasses, _hell_. He coughs and surreptitiously pulls his knees up, dragging the coverlet with the movement, disguising his body's annoying reaction to Jack's presence in his bedroom. Shit, their bedroom. Fuck, Parse's plans are the fucking worst.

"Yeah, that's what my friend Shitty says," Jack says, apparently deciding to be nice and not call Parse out on his blush.

"Shitty? That's a shit name, heh."

"Hockey nicknames, man," Jack says, more easily now, eyeing the remote control and obviously deciding for once to not start a war. Parse remembers an interview where Jack talked about his history degree and how he studied World War 2 because he's a giant fucking Canadian nerd. Hopefully Jack hasn't learned too many new tricks for tactical warfare since the last time they shared a room.

"Ah. You, uh, you still keep up with many people from your college team, huh?" It's an effort to even ask the question, because Parse is still pretty damn jealous of the Samwell Men's Hockey Team for getting to play with Jack for four years, the lucky bastards. Parse only had one year before Jack was taken away. He's gonna keep him this time, for sure. They're going to play for the rest of their careers together. It's not quite the mutual forever love Parse still sometimes kind of daydreamed about when he was at a low point and feeling sorry for himself, but it's still something amazing, something to work for.

"Chyeah," Jack says.

Parse wrinkles his mouth. " _Chyeah_? You sound like some…"

"…jock frat boy?" Jack finishes, and smirks. "Nice to know you haven't let your brain go to total pasture."

"Fuck you, I read," Parse snaps, instantly, and then feels bad, because he didn't mean to lose his temper. He's trying to be better, dammit.

"Sorry," Jack says. "I, uh. I probably still owe you a few apologies."

Parse shrugs. "I probably owe you them right back. I mean, it's not like I showed up at your frat house with the Calder under my arm, but you can't say I was all sweetness and light."

"Um, no," Jack says, and can't look Parse in the eyes, so he's probably thinking about that second time. Where things got heated, and their bodies remembered how to be together even if their heads didn't, and they'd kissed, right there in Jack's poky frat house bedroom, and it had been so perfect, for a few sweet moments, because Parse had felt fucking invincible, like he could convince Jack to come play with him on the Aces, and Jack kissed him back, so there was a chance, a _chance_ —

Parse turns to the TV, hand gripping the remote control too tightly, and he starts channel surfing. The past is in the past. And yeah, the kissing back makes more sense now Parse knows Jack isn't all that straight as he used to assume, but Parse can't linger on that moment. It wasn't the glimmer of hope he tried to cling to.

Jack makes a disgruntled noise under his breath, and Parse smiles at it, victorious in the fact that at least he can constantly annoy Jack Zimmermann, even if he can't engender any positive emotions from him. He relents and tries to settle on a channel as a compromise.

The Food Network was always a favorite, so when Parse sees one of his favorite bakers onscreen, he stops surfing and settles back to watch the tiny southern baker he likes make choux pastry. _Elegant Eric_ has only had a segment for the last year or so, and even Parse can follow his instructions; Instagram really liked the cat-shaped snickerdoodles Parse made following one of Eric's recipes last summer.

When Parse glances over to check Jack is happy that Parse has stopped channel surfing, Jack is… not happy. Very not happy. Jack kind of looks like he's about to swallow his own tongue, and he's staring at the screen with wet eyes, and shit, holy fucking shit, _what the fucking hell_?

Parse immediately powers off the television and swings his feet off the bed so he can face Jack's bed straight on.

"Dude," Parse says. "The fuck?"

"You didn't have to turn it off for me," Jack says, but it's a slurred mumble which proves yes, in fact, Parse fucking well did. Jeez, even when Parse is trying to be nice it turns out he's an inadvertent asshole somehow. Wow. Well, he's always bragging about being talented, he probably should have specified to the universe that he was quite happy with those talents being constrained to the ice.

"You wanna, uh, explain the crying?" Parse says.

Jack glares at him. It's still better than the sad expression when _Elegant Eric_ was on screen with his delightful Southern drawl and bright eyes. "I wasn't crying."

"I know," Parse says, and finger guns him because Parse is a bad person.

"You—" Jack starts, and then shrugs helplessly. "I think I'm just gonna have a shower and get some sleep, man."

"Nu-uh," Parse says. "Explanation first. _Then_ bathroom nakedness." He waggles his eyebrows as Jack looks appalled at his phrasing.

"Fine," Jack sighs. "That, uh. That's him, okay?"

Parse squints. "Him?"

Jack angrily glares at the wall for a moment, before flatly looking Parse in the eyes. "I know I told you about, uh, the guy. The guy at college." He gestures brokenly at the blank TV screen. "That was him."

Parse stares, eyebrows rising in surprise. "Elegant Eric? You fucking dated _Elegant Eric_? You lucky fucking bastard, that shitting hot and he can bake too, what the fuck went wrong, jeez, he's—"

Jack breaks his rant off with a wheezing sound, and oh. Shit. Parse has put his foot in it, but when is that anything new. Jack looks miserable and wrung out.

"Shit," Parse says. "Sorry. No. I mean it, I'm genuinely sorry. Some people just— they just can't handle our lifestyle, man. And it sucks."

"Understatement," Jack says.

He's right.

#

Rooming together on the roadie does something, even if Parse can't say exactly what it is that has happened. Knocked a screw loose. Turned back the clock but without the occasional frantic sexy makeouts and frotting of their Q days. _Something_.

Parse doesn't even really know his dodgy plan has paid off somehow until he hosts a team Mario Kart tournament in his apartment, and Jack interrupts him in the middle of tidying up for one last rematch, and also agrees to stay over in the spare room so he can help finish picking up beer bottles and chip packets in the morning before practice. Jack stays later that morning so he can meet Rosa, Parse's "rent-a-mom". Rosa's from a maid and catering service originally, but Parse stole her when he realized her agency stole half of the fee from her. She's not afraid to look after him, which means, she's also not afraid to boss him around.

It's hard to be annoyed at being bossed around when Jack Zimmermann is in his apartment, leaning against his breakfast counter, and smirking as Parse gets roped into measuring out individual tubs of trail mix.

They have a good fucking couple of games against Edmonton and Calgary, and then a couple of really shitty ones against Las Vegas and San Jose, and Parse is somehow happy throughout all four, and it's probably something to do with how he seems to have fallen into a rhythm with Jack again, off the ice as well as on it. They go to morning skate, go back to Parse's apartment for lunch and a nap and maybe review some last minute tape, then play the game, and if they win, go out with the team for steak, and if they lose, grab takeout and trudge back to Parse's apartment for games and wallowing.

Then there's two away wins against Washington and New Jersey which leaves them in tasting distance of the wildcard berth, and a frustrating loss at home against fucking Anaheim, and Parse is halfway through stuffing his face with a Rollin Smoke's Po-Boy before he realizes Jack is amicably eating next to him on his counter eating one too and they didn't even fucking discuss it. Parse is glad he has a sandwich to hide his face in, because his smile is probably beyond creepy.

Jack finishes first, washing his hands and rinsing his glass (ugh, he's such a suck-up to Parse's rent-a-mom) and setting up the Nintendo 64 because Parse can afford the latest game console but fuck, why should he, his N64 has got him through some tough shit. Parse sits down on the couch and grabs for his controller and starts playing and can't stop smiling. Even though they fucking lost and he should be kicking himself for the second period turn-over he let happen.

Then, for the first time in the couple of weeks they've been easing into this new routine, it's interrupted. Jack's phone starts trilling, the default ringtone because he's always going to be boring like that, and Jack pauses the game and excuses himself to the hall.

Parse keeps the game on pause and tries not to listen in, but his big apartment has a downside, in that sound really fucking travels, and travels well. He can't just hear Jack's side of the conversation.

Alicia's voice is quiet, but it's always carried. "Jack, is someone with you?"

"Ah, I'm at Parse's place, Maman," Jack replies, trying to keep his voice quiet. Parse would restart the game to drown out the conversation, but Jack would just accuse him of cheating. Parse sighs. He tries to distract himself by seeing what his sisters have been up to, but beyond them having no discernible senses of humor and ignoring Parse's wit of the day ("I have a hockey ass… so even when I half-ass my job they're still getting something impressive"), there's nothing there to distract him.

Especially not from Alicia Zimmermann saying, "Is that a good idea?"

And especially not when Jack pauses and inhales sharply. Parse can't see Jack's expression, but he can hear the unhappiness when he asks, "What do you mean?"

Parse can't hear everything, but he can hear fucking enough. "Just…  You and he... spent a lot of time together before... He upset you a lot, sweetheart."

"Maman," Jack says, and it's sharper than anything Parse has heard him use on his parents before. "C'était de ma faute, ça va?" A pause, Jack obviously frustrated that he's lost his cool. "It was all my fault. And I know you don't like to hear that. I know it's less painful to blame it on someone else. But I'm an addict."

"Jack, no—" Alicia says, loud enough for it to be very clear.

"Yes," Jack says, firmly. "I'm an addict and I'm always going to be an addict. That's how that shit works."

Parse lowers his head and hates that he's overhearing this, hates that Jack doesn't have the privacy he needs for this conversation. He hates that Jack's probably had to have this same conversation with his parents over and over, goodness knows Parse understands that just from last summer's fuck-ups.

He can't hear Alicia's next words, but Jack obviously cuts into them.

"I'm sorry for that," Jack says. "I'm so fucking sorry. But what happened, you can't fucking blame that on someone else. I know you hate to think about it but I fucked up. Me. No one else. That's what it means."

"I've always felt guilty," Alicia says. "The pressure we put on you, on top of the unspoken pressure of the family legacy—"

Jack just sounds tired when he responds. "I am what I am. I'm getting to grips with that one day at a time. And you can have a problem with that, or not, but the problem's not Kent." Something in Parse's chest clenches hard at hearing that, and Parse stares into space, unable to focus, something spiking behind his eyes like a burst of static. When Jack says his name, Parse can't catch his breath quick enough. "It never was him, Maman. It never has been."

"Well," Alicia's voice says. "Well, then. I can see I can't change your mind. Besides, the damage is done, you've already spent too much time with him."

"Huh?"

"Your _language,_ Jack."

"Oh," Jack says. "Um. Hazard of the profession?"

"Mmhmm," Alicia says. "So. C'mon. Tell me a little bit about Vegas. Have you found a new place yet?"

Jack starts mumbling about looking at places but it's difficult, and really, he might wait until playoffs. Alicia offers to help look, and Jack's noncommittal, and Parse stares off into space and tries not to think about how he'll probably jerk off that night thinking about the way Jack says his name. And maybe he's gonna have to rethink plan to use overexposure to get over Jack Zimmermann, _fuck._

Jack comes back in and sits gingerly back down on the sofa, reaching for his controller, and looking at the pause screen. He hits start and Parse is a little startled, enough to send Yoshi spinning off the Rainbow Road and into a field of endless stars. Parse empathizes with Yoshi as he waits for Lakitu to rescue him. He thinks Jack isn't going to mention it, because he's silent for a while and Jack's gaze is fixed on the screen. Parse is wrong, but that's nothing unusual.

"How much of that did you hear?" Jack asks, hammering a really unfair red shell at Parse moments after Lakitu re-orients him on the path.

"Uh," Parse says. "Not much."

Parse gets a flash of movement in his peripheral vision; Jack quickly glancing at him.

"That's your lying face," Jack says.

"It's just my face."

" _Kenny._ "

Parse sighs. "Fine. I'm just— No one's ever stuck up for me before, man. You caught me off-guard." Jack doesn't respond, so Parse has to stop paying attention to the game to see why, and there's a reason Jack's character (Mario, because did Parse mention internally yet how boring Jack can be?) has gone tumbling off the edge. Yoshi follows almost immediately, because Jack's face can only be described as a total question mark.

"C'mon, man," Parse says, and finally remembers the game can be paused again. "Look at me. First draft pick. Calder, two Ross, two Richards, three Stanley Cups, and yet I'm _always_ having to fucking prove myself. I get the best scores in the league, the best point runs and every day there's headlines saying I'm fucking up or can't keep it going or it's just a fluke."

Jack's silent for a moment, but he has his serious face on, and Parse stares at him helplessly, because all of Jack's faces are unfairly fucking attractive, goddammit, hockey players who are handsome enough to begin with should not be allowed to procreate with supermodels. Seriously.

"You gotta stop reading your own press, Parse," Jack says.

Parse makes a noise under his breath.

"The trade deadline passed weeks ago. Which I know personally."

"There's always the summer," Parse grouches.

"They're not fucking gonna trade the Captain who took his team to a fourth Stanley Cup."

"I guess," Parse relents. "But only because your confidence is fucking sexy."

Jack's bark of laughter covers up what could be an awkward moment. "Sure, whatever you say, Parse. C'mon, unpause, let me finish kicking your ass."

Parse smirks and hits the start button. "All of a sudden your confidence is hilarious and misplaced."

"Save your bravado for the next roadie," Jack says. "We're gonna need it."

#

Providence has always been a shitshow for Parse in general. He thought not having Jack on the team would be a help, but there's an entire three rows of fans dressed in habits. Parse breathes through his nose and sulks.

"They're never gonna let it go, are they?" Parse asks Nova, huddling in close to his goalie during warm-up.

"Never," Nova says, patting him on the ass with his blocker.

Parse kind of wants to sulk about the nun thing, but he ends up being too busy protecting Jack. It seems like all the Falconers are taking runs at him, which is shitting unfair. Blitzer is the only gentleman on the whole team, and he keeps shooting apologetic looks at Parse.

Mashkov clips Jack in the shoulder near the end of the second period, and Parse loses his goddamned shit.

#

"Ow," Parse says.

"Hold still and stop being a baby," Jack says.

Parse squints at him miserably and holds up the towel-wrapped bag of frozen peas that room service sent up to his right eye. "Hey, I fought for your fucking honor and chirping is the thanks I get?"

Jack bustles around him, reaching for a new butterfly band-aid for the cuts on Parse's cheek. Bellsy patched him up rinkside, but Parse is the kind of idiot who can't keep bandages on while he washes. And like hell he was going to skip showering after that trainwreck of a game. "I didn't ask you to fight for me."

Parse huffs, because uh, yeah, he totally had to do it, being asked to or not. "Your ex-teammates were being massive dicks."

"Yeah, and Tat--" Jack swallows back the nickname. " _Mashkov_ could have put you in the hospital, and then where the fuck would we be? You're the Captain, Parse. You need to be more responsible."

Parse pushes away, tired of the same fucking speech from every fucking direction, and he storms over to his own bed, throwing himself onto it and lacing his hands behind his head. Everything is sore. He's super lucky he's not concussed. "I didn't do too badly, though, huh?"

"I still can't--" Jack sighs. "They were acting like I fucking betrayed them. Like I _asked_ to be traded."

"Trades, man," Parse says, and then feels like a con artist, because Vegas has never let him down in that way. Even though he's let Vegas down plenty.

"I'm sorry my old team is supported by assholes," Jack says.

Parse squints at Jack. Jack picks up a towel and wraps it around his face like it's a wimple because he's a jerk. Kind of a funny jerk, and Parse doesn't want to tell Jack that, but the smirking at Jack's joking way of referencing the nuns in the stands probably gives away how he's feeling. Parse will probably always be an open book to Jack. It's just a pity it doesn't work in reverse.

"The nuns with full beards were kind of amusing," Parse relents.

Jack finishes packing away the first aid things from his bag, and sits back on his covers, leaning against the headboard and staring at the blank TV. "I know you don't really like to talk about it, but…"

"You wanna know why I exposed myself to a bunch of nuns," Parse finishes.

"Not if it's too much for you."

Parse sighs. "First, I didn't expose myself. I mooned them. There's a difference. And the reports were wrong, I did _not_ jerk off in front of them."

"Okay," Jack says slowly. "So why did you moon a bunch of _nuns_?"

"Well, I was pretty damn drunk," Parse says. "And I thought they were strippers. It's fucking _Vegas_ , man. Why the fuck were actual nuns in Vegas?"

"Even if you thought they were strippers, your first reaction was to pull your pants down while standing on the edge of the Bellagio fountain?"

Parse shrugs. "Did I mention I was pretty damn drunk?"

"Mooning nuns," Jack sighs, shaking his head. "Only you, Kenny."

"Fucking embarrassing, eh?" Parse says, and lilts the end with his best fake Canadian accent.

Jack pulls a very satisfying appalled face. Then he shakes his head and smiles softly. "Thanks."

Parse blinks. "For nearly traumatizing thirty celibate women married to God with my pasty ass?"

 "Not that the mental image isn't amusing--"

"Why use a mental image, Deadspin has the pictures in high definition."

Jack huffs a laugh. "I meant thanks for attempting to fight Mashkov to protect my honor. It was stupid, but I appreciate the thought."

" _Attempting_ to fight Mashkov?" Parse says, instead of saying something warm and emotional in response, because he knows if he does, he'll probably cry, and Jack already knows way too much about him. Giving him more chirping material is plain irresponsible. "I showed up, Zimms. I showed him who's _boss._ "

"It was like watching a wet piece of toilet paper try to strangle a hundred-year-old oak tree."

"That's weirdly specific," Parse sniffs.

Jack shrugs. "Yet strangely accurate."

#

It could be Jack's addition to the roster, or maybe they were heading that way anyway, because the Aces end up fucking killing it on their regular season ending roadie. So much so they bypass a wildcard slot and settle into second in their division, leaving them facing Anaheim in the first round of the playoffs.

Parse fucking loves playoff season, and not for the bonus in his pay packet. Hockey goes from fun to _hella_ fun, and the adrenaline really gets him going. His team constantly make him proud. Especially when they sweep Anaheim in four, Nova getting _two freaking shut-outs,_ which leaves them a couple of days to rest, and Parse finally gets to understand why Jack liked living in a frat house so much.

Because that's when he finally gets to meet the infamous Shitty, who Jack has described vaguely over the last few weeks, usually laughing hysterically among words like "tub juice" and "mustache" and "legal misadventures". It turns out Parse vaguely remembers him, so when Shitty turns up at T-Mobile arena, luggage in tow, Parse instantly invites him to stay at his apartment.

Unlike Jack, Shitty isn't shitty and accepts, which is fucking awesome, and it's kind of appalling how well Parse and Shitty get on.

Well, maybe the appalling part is how well Shitty and Kit Purrson get on, but Parse is always going to be a sucker for people who get on with his cat.

Plus, Shitty figures out why Kit, well, _smells_ so shitty all the time.

"We had a cat at the Haus once," Shitty says, lying back on Parse's Aces rug, staring at the ceiling and absently petting Kit. "Remember him, Jack?"

"Mario LeMew, yeah," Jack says. He's folding Parse's laundry, because Rosa's the best or the worst rent-a-mom in the world, Parse hasn't decided yet, and she treats anyone in Parse's space as her kids and thus hers to bully. Parse kind of loves it. Vegas isn't the future he dreamed of when he was just a kid in the Q with Jack, but he's made it his own anyway.

"Anyway, a lot of cats are intolerant to offal," Shitty says. "Just skip the chicken and kidney pouches and you'll be free of one smelly kitty cat."

"Swawesome," Parse says, slowly. "Did I say that right?"

"Swawesomely," Shitty agrees, and Parse beams at him.

Jack trots off to go put the folded linen in the actual linen closet, what a fucking suck-up, and Shitty reaches for the remote control for Parse's giant TV.

"You mind?" Shitty says. "I kind of go crazy when places get too quiet, y'know? I think I was inceptioned by law school."

"Can't believe you did that, man," Parse sighs. "It sounds like _hell._ "

"Naw, law's fun," Shitty says. "Nothing as satisfying as finding someone smug and rich and literally _talking_ them into shitting their own pants."

"You're good with words," Parse agrees. "I'm not crazy enough for shit like that."

"Just other regular crazy stuff, like getting pucks shot at your head, and having guys who weigh the same as a small vehicle crushing your bones every other night."

"Ex-fucking-actly," Parse says. "I mean, like, they call cat people crazy, but we're not the dudes outside at five in the morning scooping up shit into bags, y'know?"

Shitty laughs. "You're almost cool, Kent Parson."

"Fucking tell Jack that," Parse says. "He still won't move in with me."

"He's secretly an old man," Shitty says. "You can wear him down with snuggles and chicken tenders, though."

"Snuggles and chicken tenders? I can do that." Parse reaches over for his phone and texts Rosa to get her to add frozen chicken tenders to her shopping list. A moment later he gets back three screens full of capslock ranting about how she's a beautiful chef, why would he insult her like this? Shitty glances over at the screen and his mustache twitches at the sight of Rosa's rant. Parse beams back. Man, he could get used to this. He's had teammates, and that's the kind of family bond that can't be broken even when fucking awful trades happen, but _friends_? Yeah, that's been a long time coming.

"Mm, I bet baseball looks fucking awesome on this screen," Shitty says, flicking through channels. "You get that, right?"

"I get all the fucking channels, baby," Parse says, sitting up and scrolling to the app on his phone that'll tell him what channel is showing which game.

"Oh, hey," Shitty says, and grins up at the screen, "swawesome. Bitty's TV show is on."

"Bitty?" Parse asks, and then glances at the TV and freezes at the familiar sound of _Elegant Eric_ 's intro jingle. _Bakers gonna bake, bake, bake_. "Man, shit, no, you gotta turn that off, dude. Quick. Before Jack gets back in the room."

Shitty turns to Parse, blinking. "Why? We went to college with Bittle, he was on the team--"

"--and he was Jack's fucking ex, man. C'mon. Turn it off."

Shitty squints. "Ex?"

"Ex boyfriend, yeah," Parse says, impatiently. "Turn it off before Jack sees it--"

Shitty hits the power off button on the remote control instead, which is overkill, all he needed to do was fucking change the channel, Shitty's finger was still on the plus minus key, why the hell did he--?

Parse looks up then, and sees exactly why. Jack and Shitty are staring at each other, and Jack just looks like someone yanked the floor out from beneath him. Jack looks exactly like Parse has been imagining his expression to look like the exact moment he was told he was being traded from Providence to Las Vegas.

"Jack," Shitty says, in an odd and hollow voice.

Jack's hands are trembling and clenched into fists. His throat and shoulders are obviously tense. He swallows hard and says, in a stiff and small voice, "Shitty, I, uh. I guess we should talk." He glances to the side, like he's looking for Parse but missing, and then Jack stares at the floor determinedly. "In private."

"I'll go downstairs and see Wil," Parse says. "I, uh, I promised him some tickets to the next home game."

Jack manages to look at him directly for just a second, and he nods, expression twisted into something Parse can interpret. He just doesn't want to. Parse grabs his apartment keys and the envelope of tickets for Wil, and flees.

#

"I fucked up," Parse says. He shifts his weight as he stands on the doorstep.

Nova has an arm full of Millie. He nods and steps aside. Parse nods gratefully and hustles inside. Nova gets him a Gatorade and takes a beer for himself and sits Parse down at his kitchen table before disappearing. He comes back a minute later, Millie-less.

"I guess this is about Jack Zimmermann, then," Nova says.

Parse narrows his eyes. "Why would you say that?"

"Um, maybe because my Captain _always_ gets stupid around Jack Zimmermann?"

Parse sighs, and doesn't respond, but his silence is probably damning.

"I like Zimmermann. Good guy. And, y'know, I'm not a major gossip. Especially about my teammates' sexualities. So I'm not saying Zimmermann is straight," Nova says. "But what I am saying is that he's been at three gatherings where my wife was with me, and I've not once had to punch him in the groin."

Parse silently stares at Nova's fridge.

"And you not being surprised about that is telling," Nova says.

Parse sighs. Fucking perceptive goalies. "A couple of weeks back he got drunk and spilled about his ex-boyfriend," Parse says. "I mean, I'm actually a fan of the ex-boyfriend, which is pretty fucking weird, that tiny Southern baker on the Food Network?"

"Elegant something? Elegant Ethan?"

"Eric," Parse says. He looks down at his phone, the moment too intense for his comfort, so he texts his sisters, the motion almost automatic.

"Who would you say is hotter," Parse types. "Me or Elegant Eric from the Food Network?"

Kylie texts him back instantly. "Eric, duh. Hands down."

"No question," Kennedy adds.

Ugh, Parse wonders why he loves his sisters so much sometimes. They're terrible for his self esteem.

"Yeah, Ella watches Elegant Eric," Nova says. "He's the shit."

"I _know,_ right?" Parse says, excited, and then slumps again. "Jack broke up with him, or, Eric broke up with Jack, I don't know. Either way, Jack's obviously still fucking cut up about it. So even if I was dumb and _tried_ to make a move, and he was dumb enough to respond, it would be fucking _stupid._ I don't want him as a fucking rebound, man. I want him for keeps."

"Well, you being in love with him still, that kind of explains why you always got so stupid when we played against him," Nova says.

Parse narrows his eyes at Nova. "What the fuck, man?"

Nova tilts his head. "I'm honestly trying to figure out where what I just said was wrong, but I'm drawing a blank."

"The _in love_ part, dude," Parse says. "I'm not fucking in love with Jack Zimmermann. I mean, I guess I was once, but I'm over it. I mean, yeah, I've been hanging out with the guy a lot, but that's because I missed him as a friend, and because I figured if I overexpose myself to him that I'd wrap my head around why it's _good_ that he wasn't in love with me back during the Q. I mean, sure, I'm an idiot, I loved him back then, but I'm not in love with him _now._ "

"Uh, _dude,_ " Nova says, stretching out the _dude_. "You just said-- you want him for _keeps._ "

"Yeah, but," Parse starts, and falters.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

The pain of hearing Jack saying he was never in love with him is starting to make sense.

Horrible, terrible sense.

Parse thought he was an idiot when all he knew was that he'd been in love with Jack for a year without reciprocation. But if he's in love with Jack now…

If he's been in love with Jack Zimmermann for _all this time…_

"Shit," Parse says. " _Shit._ I really am an idiot."

"Afraid so, man," Nova says, but he reaches over and puts a heavy hand on Parse's shoulder, anchoring him to the moment, and to the quiet stillness of Nova's homely kitchen, an oasis in the middle of Las Vegas' business and bright lights.

Parse takes in a breath or two, one shuddering, one less so.

"Feels better knowing, though, right?" Nova says, gently.

Parse smiles, bittersweet and tight. "Guess so." His fingers busy themselves peeling the label from his Gatorade bottle. In the dimming natural light, Parse's fingers look almost orange themselves against the bottle. The world still has color, even in a world where Parse is hopelessly and impossibly in love with Jack Zimmermann.

Jack didn't love him back then. Jack could never love him now. He's a veteran hockey player with a dwindling contract and no college education. But if Parse has survived and thrived _this_ long being in love with Jack Zimmermann and not having him, then he can keep going. Hockey's always going to be the kind mistress that keeps him going when Jack Zimmermann makes his head spin and his heart pound and the world fall beneath Parse's feet.

"Shit, man, I've done nothing but whine," Parse says after Nova talks him through the pain for a while longer. He rubs his hands over his face. "Why the hell do you put up with me?"

Nova's smile is kind when Parse looks up at him. "Because you're kind of okay, as far as American hockey players go," Nova says. "And also because you're single-handedly going to put all four of my kids through college." Nova beams and points at the swear jar on top of the fridge.

Parse sighs, starts to dig for his wallet, contemplates putting his watch in the jar for a moment, and then he freezes. " _Four_ kids?" His mouth drops open. "Ella's pregnant again?"

Nova's grin is kind of shit-eating as he nods. "If it's a boy, Ella says I can call him Stanley."

"You should fucking call him Kent," Parse says, and beams, delighted, even as he preemptively stuffs another hundred into the swear jar.

#

Buoyed by his goalie's good news, Parse almost forgets why he's avoiding his own apartment until he gets back in, and sees Jack sitting on the couch and _shit._ Yeah. Parse is the fucking scumbag who apparently maybe outed Jack without his permission.

As if Parse was ever thinking he couldn't feel worse about himself or be any more of a fuck-up. Ugh.

"Hey, man," Parse says. His own voice sounds hollow and awkward and kind of higher pitched than usual. It's because he's kind of a shit actor. And his role right now isn’t much different than the one he's been playing all summer: remorseful hockey player who's probably a terrible person at heart, but one who'd much like to make up for the awful things he's done.

Parse is remorseful. He does want to make up for the terrible things he does. It just seems sometimes he can do shitty things faster than he can atone for them.

"Shitty hit the sack," Jack says, and his voice is strained, the same way it gets after Parse and he have spent an hour shrieking at each other on the ice. Jack's eyes are a little red and swollen. Parse abruptly feels terrible all over again.

"I didn't mean to out you to your friend," Parse says, in a small tight voice. "I just-- he was your best friend at college, and I assumed he would already know, and I was out of line. If you wanna hit me, go ahead." He tilts his chin, gestures at his jawline, and waits expectantly for the hit to come.

"I'm not going to hit you, man," Jack says, rolling his eyes like Parse is a massive fucking trial. He isn't wrong about that. "I mean, it's always shitty when someone outs you when you're not ready--" Parse flinches "--but I should have told Shitty years ago. _Years_ ago. I was a coward, and I think-- I think I needed the push. So thanks for being a dick, I guess."

"I'm still sorry," Parse says. "I always end up needing to say that to you. I'm sorry for that too."

"I'm sorry too," Jack says. "I fucked up more than you ever did, Parse. And I fucked up making you feel like you'd done something wrong. You never could have helped me back then."

"I could," Parse says, and he steps forwards, not quite meaning to, but earnestness pushes him forwards anyway. "I could have seen something, _said_ something more--"

"You did fine," Jack says, and he looks up at Parse with laser focus. "You can't fix someone that's broken. Not by yourself. And it was never your job. I would have _loved_ to do everything we talked about that summer. Wait out our entry contracts wherever we were drafted, and then find a team to play together. But I couldn't. I was sick and I needed to heal. Would you have felt the same if I'd had, say, a shattered bone?"

Parse perches on the arm of the sofa. It feels like a safe distance away from Jack. "Did I hypothetically shatter this bone?"

"No way," Jack says. "Accident. I fell down the stairs."

"You were always the clumsiest."

"My head was broken," Jack says, and he shrugs. "It fell down the stairs."

Parse frowns. "I guess," he says. "Still doesn't mean it was okay for me to poke your shattered head with a stick."

"You wouldn't be you if you didn't push me," Jack says. "But I'm grateful. I'm grateful I got better, and I can finally play next to you. Because playing on your line has made me remember why I love hockey so much, y'know?"

Parse smiles sadly.  

"I always knew I owed you an apology," Jack says. "I didn't notice we owed _ourselves_ apologies too."

That's not what Parse is expecting him to say. "What do you mean?"

"We were eighteen, Parse. _Eighteen years old._ " Jack shakes his head. "You're not supposed to have your shit together at that age even for the regular stuff. We have to learn to realize it's okay if neither of us handled any of it how we would handle it now. Or how we would _want_ to handle it, now we have hindsight and time to think about it."

"I definitely wouldn't have pushed you about dropping college," Parse says, instantly. "And I wouldn't have been such a dick. I lash out when I'm hurt because I'm a dick, man. I promise I'm working on it?"

"You've been doing great," Jack says. "One day at a time, yeah?"

Parse thinks about it. "Isn't that addiction shit? What they teach you in rehab?"

Jack nods with a wry expression that says Parse has probably been a little inappropriate again. "It applies. We become addicted to our bad habits and bad coping mechanisms."

Parse thinks about his terrible summer, and leaning on the alcohol for those few weeks because losing in the first round of playoffs had been a kick in the fucking teeth. He thinks about how he texts his sisters jokes because he doesn't want them to mock how he's feeling. He thinks about how he lashes out when he's in pain, because it's too much to bear, because the whole world should suffer with him.

He thinks about how Jack's back in his life, and how it's been easier than he deserves. Jack came back into his life unexpectedly, and Parse feels like he's spent the last few weeks expecting Jack to disappear just as suddenly. Just as surprisingly. It's kind of what happened during the draft, so Parse has been waiting for it to happen, and taking every day as it comes. Enjoying every day and hour with Jack like they're the last ones he's gonna get.

And maybe that's the key. Thinking about the past doesn't help anything. Staying in the present though, and enjoying _now._ That's the key. Thinking each day with Jack is going to be his last has meant he hasn't been stupid and careless with his emotions. He hasn't lashed out, because each day is precious, and every time Jack walks out the door might be the last time Parse ever sees him.

One day at a time. Yeah.

"Yeah," Parse says quietly. "Yeah, I think I'm starting to see what you mean."

#

The Aces take Edmonton down but it's a fight to the end. Game 7 leaves Parse's team too weary to celebrate their success too energetically.

Parse slumps in his stalls after the hundred cameras pointed at his face have been shooed away. He slides out his phone to type in a joke to his sisters about how Nova stashes a water bottle in the Pringles slot on the stationary bike in the Aces' weight room. He deletes it.

"I'm scared if we don't get through this next round they'll trade me," he types instead, and locks the screen so he can't immediately read his sisters' responses.

Parse looks over to where Jack's standing talking down the overly-excited rookies who are thrilled they've reached the Conference final. If he isn't traded, he'll talk to Rolston about Jack getting Blitzer's A. If he is traded, Parse will talk to Rolston about Jack getting Parse's C.

He thinks about the future he pictured that last summer with Jack, before the overdose. How beautiful and brimming with possibility each day had been. It hadn't felt like that for Jack. Parse tries to put himself in Jack's shoes, and pictures every day of that summer feeling like an overtime loss, over and over. A world where a possibility just felt like one more thing to weigh you to the bottom of a deep, deep lake.

Parse's throat feels dry. He wants to beat himself up for the mistakes they made during the game, even though they won, but he pushes the impulse aside. One day at a time. One game at a time. Parse looks over to Jack again, starting to kind of understand, and Jack's already looking his way. Parse frowns, but Jack nods to Parse's left.

Parse follows his glimpse to where Nova's slumped in his alcove, shoulders hunched over. Parse looks back at Jack and nods. Jack nods back, and slings his arms around two of the rookies, dragging them out the door to give Parse some quiet time with their starting goalie.

"That game was rough for all of us," Parse says, once they're alone.

Nova shrugs.

"You do realize we won, right?" Parse leans closer to bump his shoulder companionably into Nova's.

"No thanks to me," Nova mutters. He always takes being benched during regular season hard, but getting benched during play-offs must sting like a motherfucker. Nova's hurting and Parse hates it, because everyone has bad days, and usually there's way less of them than good days.

What's important is to find a way to forgive yourself for the lapses in judgment. The bad shots. The awful plays. The terrible ideas. Sure, you can do the stupidest things in the world -- lash out at someone you love because you're hurting, or moon a bunch of nuns -- but it's how you deport yourself afterwards that defines your character. Parse is working on that. He's a work-in-progress. But for the first time in a long time, he thinks he has a chance of getting where he wants to be.

He wants to be a good person. He wants to be a better person. And that means learning from the bad decisions and moving on. One or two bad summers don't mean Parse has to write himself off as a bad guy forever. One bad game doesn't mean you've ruined your whole season. And a couple of bad plays don't erase the good shit you do.

"Dude," Parse says, "you're like, the only reason we even got this far. We played like _shit_ for the last few games. And McDavid was on fire, Wall only managed to stop us from losing because Jack's a fucking idiot and helped out."

Nova sighs ruefully.

"We've got a day to rest, and then we're going to San Jose, and then we're going to kick Jumbo Joe's ass. For sure," Parse says. "You're allowed to have a bad day, Ivanov."

Nova sighs _again,_ but his shoulders straighten a little. "I guess," he says. He nods a couple of times, determined. "The Sharks are gonna have _more_ bad days."

"Four of 'em," Parse says, clapping Nova's back. "C'mon, let's get changed and go show the rookies how to celebrate in fucking style, huh?"

Nova nods, and bends down to finally start unlacing his pads. "Jack was pretty stupid, huh?"

"Fucking stepped right in front of one of McDavid's 110mph slapshots," Parse says, pulling a face. "He's gonna be bruised for _weeks_ from that. Fucking lucky his spleen didn't rupture."

"Bellsy cleared him?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Nova says. He side-eyes Parse. "You two are good for each other."

Parse's cheeks feel a little warm. "Wasn't always the case, for sure."

Nova shrugs philosophically. "Doesn't mean it can't be true now."

Parse nods, and quickly finishes changing. While he waits for Nova to finish, his goalie padding taking longer to remove, Parse opens his phone and squints at the number of notifications, slightly scared to see what his sisters have said. Honestly, though, they probably can't say anything to him worse than what he says to himself.

Parse types in his unlock code -- 9090 because he really is that much of an egotistical shitheel -- and swipes to the group thread with his sisters. He smiles, overwhelmed.

"They're shitheads if they even think for one second of trading you," Kennedy's text reads. "That game was fucking FIRE. I'm so mad work didn't give me the time to come see it IRL."

"You have a no move clause for a reason," Kylie has written. "They believe in you. Vegas believes in you. We believe in you. You're doing great, kid."

"If they want you to go then they're idiots, and hot peeps called K Parson don't work for fucking idiots. So don't sweat it," Krista says. "And steal me some of Zimmermann's socks on your way out the door."

"You're the heart of that franchise," Kennedy adds. "Your logo might be the Ace of Spades but kiddo, you're the Ace of Hearts."  
  
Another message from Kylie pops up while he's scrolling down. "We'll see you in San Jose on Tuesday!!!! YEAH BOI WE ALL GOT TIME OFF THIS ROUND. TIME TO SEE YOU CHOMP THOSE LOUSY SHARKS!!!! OM NOM NOM."

"I'm making KD to go in the Cup this summer, BRING IT HOME BRO," Krista says.

Parse can't stop the grin. Man, his sisters are idiots. He loves them _ridiculous_ amounts. Nova's busy lacing up his sneakers, so Parse puts his phone away and throws his arm around him, kissing his goalie on the cheek.

"No homo, bro," Parse declares, squeezing the goalie and snuggling in close. "Well. A little bit homo. Y'know."

Nova laughs, the first time all day.

"Oh, my sisters are coming to the first round in Cali," Parse says as they get to their feet. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Name it, Cap'n," Nova says, and faux-salutes. "I'm yours to command."

"If any of the team eyeball my sisters inappropriately, can you help me punch them all in the groin?"

Nova smirks. "I happen to be an expert in that particular arena."

#

Seeing his sisters in the stands is always amazing, and it never happens enough, and while Parse doesn't score, he assists twice, helping Jack get a natural hat trick in the first period. Parse beams up at his sisters, and then squints down at the ice from a distance, because Jack seems to be talking to someone on the Sharks' bench before the start of the second period.

Parse has to wrack his brain because he can't remember any ex-Falconers being on the Sharks. Parse thinks for a moment that maybe there's a descendant of hockey royalty in San Jose, or maybe Jumbo Joe is actually Jack's _Uncle_ Jumbo Joe, because that happens a lot. He leans back, pretending to stretch, and sees Jack talking to their reserve goalie. The Sharks are obviously chirping him throughout the conversation, but it seems good-natured enough.

The reserve goalie's cute, if you're into that swoopy black hair, perfectly even teeth kind of thing. Parse tongues at his own teeth, suddenly self-conscious of his bridge and the missing tooth in his lower jaw. He flickers a glance up at the jumbotron and catches the goalie's name. Christopher Chow. Huh. It's not ringing a bell.

Jack's leaning in closer to Chow, and Chow is beaming back like Jack's the center of the universe, and Parse knows that feeling. Jack nods at Chow and leans over the boards for a brief hug with him and Parse's stomach rolls with jealousy. Jack skates quickly back towards the Aces' bench, and he narrows his eyes at Parse.

"You okay, man?" Jack asks, leaning in close and shielding his mouth with his glove so the cameras don't pick up on what they're saying. Even one friendly question like that can be magnified to epic melodramatic proportions during a Stanley Cup final. One "are you okay?" can be translated to "ACES CAPTAIN PARSON IS AT DEATH'S DOOR" in the span of five tweets and a snapchat story.

"Yeah," Parse says, vaguely. "Consorting with the enemy, huh?"

Jack frowns and then his mouth falls open in an _oh._ "Chowder was my college goalie," he says, and smiles fondly. "Kid was obsessed with the Sharks. It's nice to see he made it, even if they're underusing him."

Parse levels Jack with a skeptical look. "Jones is hot shit, your soup boy looks like someone accidentally dressed a toddler in goalie gear and left him on the bench to wait for his parents."

"Chowder is…" Jack pauses. "I'm struggling for the word. He's a good kid, but…"

"Well," Parse says, and looks over at Chow, considering. Hearing Jack call him a kid twice settles the knot of jealousy in his stomach. "He's a goalie. I'm going to guess the word is _crazy._ "

"I heard that," Nova sniffs as he squeezes past them both.

Jack laughs and Parse tries not to look too winded that he hadn't noticed Nova was anywhere nearby. He kind of has tunnel vision when it comes to Jack. When Parse forces himself to tear his eyes away from Jack, so there isn't too much footage being broadcast of his Jack-Zimmermann-heart-eyes, he glances up at his sisters again… only to be met by three overly knowing glances.

Parse sighs and grips his stick. Maybe holding onto their three goal lead against the Sharks will cheer him up.

#

After the game, Parse heads back to the hotel alone. Delayed by the media thrilled at them winning the first game 5-1 on away ice, Parse couldn't shower at the Tank, so he hurries into the bathroom and ducks under the shower.

When he comes out, he nearly runs into Jack. Parse grabs onto his towel, only just managing to stop it falling.

"Sorry," Jack says. His cheeks are a little pink. "Uh, Chow offered to show me his new place, so--" He blinks. "You wanna come with? I know it's enemy territory, but it's not like Chow's the starter, so--"

"I'm going to see my sisters," Parse says.

"Oh," Jack says. "Um. How are they? Kennedy, Krista and Kylie, right?"

Parse stares. Jack never met them, because New York was too far away from Quebec for them to visit, and Parse never talks about them now. He barely talked about them _then._ His family's fucking complicated. The fact that Jack remembers their names is somehow overwhelming.

Jack stares right back. Up close, it's hard to avoid any of the details that drive Parse crazy about him. The blue of his eyes. The sweep of his dark eyelashes on his cheeks. The fact that Parse knows how soft Jack's hair is when he slides his fingers into it isn't helping the world feel anything but unsteady.

"Yeah," Parse says, feeling like he's suddenly somehow forgotten how to speak. Jack's closer, somehow, maybe he's leaning closer, or is Parse leaning into him? Whatever it is, they're coming closer like an object in space knocked into something else's gravity field.

There used to be moments like this back in the Q. When it didn't feel like either of them made a conscious decision to do anything, but it happened nonetheless. Kissing for hours in tiny hotel beds, in abandoned locker rooms, in the shadowed alley behind the rink. In the back of a car, Parse clinging desperately to Jack's shoulders as Jack whispered compliments into his ear.

If Parse doesn't move, the kiss will be inevitable. There's too much energy crackling between them for anything else to happen. And for a moment, Parse nearly gives into it. His lips are parted and hungry for the way Jack tastes, for the way Jack's weight can anchor him to the here and now. It's been years since their last kiss and Parse is starving for it.

He closes his eyes and stumbles backwards, hands shaking as he deliberately turns to his suitcase. Jack can't see Parse's expression from this angle, and it's a good thing. Parse is an inch away from crying. He wishes Kit was there, but she's not. She's nearly four hundred miles away, probably being spoiled rotten by Rosa in Parse's absence.

Parse settles his breathing. This isn't the life he dreamed of, once upon a time, but he's filled it with people of his own choosing. Wil. Rosa. Nova.

Jack's here, but it's not by choice. He's been traded to the Aces, and he didn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be with Parse at all.

"Kent?" Jack says. His name on Jack's lips make it sound like he's something precious. Like Parse is something that could shatter if Jack isn't kind. Parse heart clenches and he feels dizzy.

"I need to get dressed," Parse says, and it maybe comes out a little harsh. "If, uh. If you don't mind."

"Sure," Jack says. "Whatever you need." There's a rustle of movement and the sound of a door closing and Parse collapses to his knees, breathing hard. He presses his forehead against the cool surface of the hotel bed nightstand for a second, and then opens his eyes and gets to his feet to continue getting ready to see his sisters, because that's what Parse does when Jack Zimmermann unsettles his whole world. He keeps going.

One day at a time.

#

They win. They motherfucking win.

They wipe the Sharks in five, and it's mostly because they're idiots and don't put Chow in goal. They use their reserve goalie once, and it's the one game the Aces lose, and Parse's stomach feels queasy on the road to San Jose for game five at the idea of facing Chow again. Then they find out Jones is starting the next game, and Parse's confidence comes back. If the Sharks aren't going to use their best goalie, they deserve to lose.

For the Cup they face Tampa Bay, with their own double dream team -- Stamkos and Drouin have been lighting up the East Conference for years. It's a slog, but Parse and the Aces play one game at a fucking time, and they _win_ , scraping the win in Game 6 with a sweet little wrist shot from Curly, Jack and Parse getting the assists.

They win the Cup and Parse is fucking delighted. More so when Jack gets the Conn-Smythe for his twenty-three freaking beautiful playoff goals, knocking Jari Kurri's thirty-year record for most goals in one playoff season into the dust. Everyone on the internet who was whining about Jack being traded to the Aces is… well, they're still whining, to be honest. Butthurt haters on twitter are always gonna be butthurt haters. Hell, if Crosby still gets constant slander online, what the hell hope does any other player have?

Parse wondered once whether winning the Cup would ever got old, but as he presses his mouth to the cool metal on his lap of the arena, past a disappointed arena mostly full of Tampa Bay fans dressed in blue, he knows he's never gonna get tired of this high. He passes the cup to Jack, unable to stop smiling, and thinks sappily about dreams coming true.

Dreams can come true, it turns out. Even if they don't happen like your stupid teenage-ass self thinks they're going to. He's pleased about that.

And then Jack Zimmermann fucking kisses him.

#

Okay, so it doesn't happen in public. Not for hours after their victory, after the whole team tumbles into cabs and to a privately rented facility out in the suburbs of Tampa Bay where they can party with their road team and coaches and not be disturbed by hurting Lightning fans. It doesn't even happen that night, as Jack and Parse tumble into their shared hotel room, laughing themselves to sleep in joy.

It's when they're packing to leave in the morning that it happens.

Jack leans in, and presses his mouth to Parse's, and Parse kisses back before he even realizes what's happening. There's a reason this shouldn't be happening, Parse thinks, even as his lips tingle and his cheeks are instantly burning from Jack's playoff beard, _goddammit,_ what a fucking stupid tradition that is, and Parse makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat.

Jack pulls back enough to smile shyly, then widely, and his large hand spreads wide across Parse's chin, tilting his head a little as he leans down to kiss him again and no. _No._

" _No,_ " Parse manages, pushes Jack back and stumbling backwards, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand like if he can wipe the sensation away, the craving for the sensation will go with it. Kissing Jack Zimmermann is even better than hockey, and Parse needs to forget that, or he'll go mad pining for something he can't have.

Jack's eyes immediately go sad, the fucker, and Parse's stomach twists uneasily, because it's not fair, he can't have Jack, so why is Jack doing this to him?

"You do want me," Jack says, his sad eyes scanning Parse's face like he can maybe find an answer, and good fucking luck deciphering Parse's expression right now, because it has to be as much of a shitshow as the person making it. Jack's voice is low, serious, and strained from all the shouting after the win. "I knew you did. So why do you keep pulling back from this, man?"

Parse squeezes his eyes shut. Squeezes his hands into fists. This isn't fair. This is so fucking unfair. But he can't lie. This is the perfect time to tell the truth. If this goes badly, he can go to Poughkeepskie and let his sisters help him mend his shattered heart.

"Because I miss you," Parse says.

Jack makes a bewildered noise. He's right to. It must sound insane as a reason _not_ to do something like this.

"I miss you all the time," Parse sighs, sinking onto his bed in despair. The high from the Cup and now this? Emotional whiplash is apparently his default state. "Even when you're right there, I fucking miss you."

Jack sounds confused. "Then why--?"

"Because you're on the fucking rebound," Parse snaps his eyes back open and he glares because fuck Jack for making him have to say this shit. " You're still healing, and you're important to me. I couldn't bear being your rebound, okay? I could never fucking survive that, so don't fucking ask me to."

And shit, he's been too honest, and why the fuck is Jack smiling at him like that? It's infuriating. No wonder half the league wants to hit him into the boards. Parse scowls and looks away, because he can't look at Jack. He can't bear to see the pity that's gonna inevitably descend when he realizes how much Parse has been uselessly pining over him.

"Parse," Jack says.

Parse stubbornly continues to glare at his wall.

"Kent," Jack says, all Disney-soft again, gentle and warm, and Parse can't help himself. He looks back at Jack, and Jack has moved closer? _Infuriating._ Rubbing what Parse wants and can't have right in his fucking face. Maybe Parse isn't the only asshole in the room. "Bits and I broke up two years ago."

Parse squints. That doesn't make any sense. Elegant Eric came on TV and Jack _cried._

"I just get a little sentimental and sad when I see him on TV," Jack says. "But that's all it is. Nostalgia. I was already missing home when that came on, y'know? I think you know more than most about what it's like to miss someone."

Parse's mouth works uselessly.

"It's been over two years, I promise, this isn't a rebound impulse," Jack says, holding up his hands, and by moving closer, it means Jack's hands are hovering near Parse's shoulders. "How long do you think it takes a person to get over someone, huh?"

Parse huffs noisily. "How the fuck would I know? It's been over ten years and I'm still not fucking over you."

Jack makes this choking sound in the back of his throat, and Parse frowns up at him, because why would Jack be making a noise like that, like he's just heard something shocking but pleasing?

Then Parse thinks over his own words.

Shit.

_Shit._

It's been true for him for so long that he hadn't even registered the words as they came out.

Oh god. Oh _hell._ Parse is a fucking walking and breathing human disaster. He can't believe he's been such an idiot, to admit to Jack he's been stupidly in love with him for more than a third of his fucking _life,_ it's such a ridiculous, stupid thing to do, he's a fucking idiot, why the hell did Rolston think he deserved the C?

And why the fuck is Jack smiling, anyway?

Jack's hand curls around Parse's neck, and Parse looks away stubbornly.

"Parse," Jack says.

Parse huffs and continues glaring away.

" _Kent,_ " Jack says again, and apparently Jack can make Parse do fucking anything just by saying his fucking name.

Parse looks up at him. Jack's smile is warm and steady and Parse can feel his toes fucking curling, just from one look. Man, he's a total goner.

There's a bashing sound on their door and then the sound of disjointed singing. It takes a moment for Parse to place the words. _Light 'em up up up, I'm on fire._ It's kind of appropriate to hear the Aces' goal song, Parse thinks, because he feels like he just won something from the hardest, most difficult shot of his life.

Jack glances at the door, visibly disappointed that they've been interrupted, and he tries to step backwards, but Parse grabs hold of the hem of Jack's shirt, halting him.

"We'll talk about this," Parse says. "I promise. When we get back to Vegas, okay?"

Jack nods.

"But for now, we gotta do a public service and stop that singing," Parse says, pulling a face.

Jack mirrors the expression. " _That_ counts as singing? I thought they were sacrificing a goat."

"In a hotel corridor, Zimmermann? Aces save that private shit for behind closed doors," Parse says, letting Jack help him to his feet. He grazes Jack's hip with his own as he moves past him to open the door, shooting him a small, secret smile just for him as he goes.

#

"FRESH DEMANDS FOR KENT PARSON TO BE TRADED," the ticker reads.

Jack's sigh is audible as he lugs in their last bag, like he can't believe the first thing Parse has done on coming home is turn on the TV. "What did I tell you about reading your own press?"

"That I shouldn't," Parse says. "But this isn't written."

Jack shoves the door closed, and then moves closer to steal the remote control. Parse ignores his movement and leans closer to see what's going on. He kind of has some idea from his Twitter feed, but sometimes he needs to hear it before he believes something.

"It's a disgrace," a woman onscreen is saying loudly, "my _children_ were watching. He should be more of a role-model to his local community and the hockey community at large--"

A segment cuts in before Jack can grab the remote, footage filling the screen of the Aces in the Tampa Bay Visitor's Locker, screaming and celebrating their win.

"The Captain of this year's Stanley Cup winning ice hockey team, Kent Parson, has been a popular visitor to scandalous headlines in his tenure as Captain of the Las Vegas Aces. Perhaps the owners of the Aces might want to consider trading him, rather than being exposed to such constant embarrassing behavior," the announcer says.

"I'm proud to be the _beep_ ing Captain of such an amazing _beep_ ing team," the Parse on the TV screen yells during what had been a live broadcast. " _Beep beep beep_ ing _champions._ "

Parse flinches at each _beep._ The footage makes it very clear what words he was saying.

"His language is absolutely inappropriate," the woman huffs. "They should have traded him last summer before--"

Jack manages to snag the remote and he turns the power off.

Parse narrows his eyes, and then sighs. "The Parson pottymouth strikes again, I guess," he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing. "Does this mean I gotta learn how to talk nicely?"

"Mm," Jack says, noncommittally, and instead of sitting next to Parse, straddles him on the sofa instead.

Parse falls back into the sofa cushion and looks up at Jack warily. It's probably going to take a long time to really believe Jack's back in his life, but if that means Parse has longer to get into the habit of appreciating each day he's there, Parse isn't going to complain about that.

"Maybe you can learn to keep the bad language behind closed doors, huh?" Jack says. His words are warm on Parse's cheek, and his eyes are locked on Parse's face. "I heard the Aces captain saying something about how private activities occur in places like that."

Parse swallows, because he wants this, he wants this _so badly,_ but he can't do what he's done before. Last time he tried to railroad Jack with entreaties to come to Vegas, to leave his stupid college and just come _with_ him. This time he has to let Jack come to him on his own. He has to be sure.

"I don't-- I don't want this just to be a pity thing," Parse says, "because you feel bad I'm still stupid over your incredible ass."

Jack's smile is slow and predatory. "Does this _feel_ like pity to you, Parson?"

Parse is halfway through frowning, because does _what_ feel like pity, but then Jack's hands bracket his head on the sofa cushions and Jack's hips undulate into his and Jack kisses him and oh, no. Nope, _that_ doesn't feel like pity at _all._

"Fuck," Jack murmurs when he pulls his mouth away. He rests his forehead against Parse's, already panting like he's three minutes into what should have been a two-minute shift on ice.  

"Yeah," Parse agrees, and even though he's smiling like a fool, he presses that smile against Jack's mouth again briefly for a moment. "Shit, we're good at this. Should have been doing this for years, huh?"

Jack makes a noise in the back of his throat which isn't the sexy sound Parse had wanted to hear. "I'm ready now," he says, his voice warm against Parse's skin. "I wasn't back then. I wasn't a real person. College and therapy fixed that. Fixed me."

"I never thought there was anything that needed fixing."

Jack pulls back far enough to look down fondly at him, and he reaches up a hand to brush through Parse's overlong hair. Parse's playoff beard isn't as nice as Jack's, alas. It's one of life's many disappointments.

"It's probably because you're kind of not that smart," Jack says, grinning in a way Parse can totally identify as his chirping expression.

"Oh yeah?" Parse says, raising a single eyebrow. "Well, I'm not the idiot kissing Kent Parson. He's a terrible member of society, haven't you heard the news?"

"Ah, I don't follow the local news station. They keep saying dumb shit about my Captain, saying he's unreliable when he's pretty much one of the best people I've ever met," Jack says, shuffling in Parse's lap until he finds a position they both approve of.

"The best?" Parse is skeptical, for sure.

"One of," Jack says. "I mean, you never gave up on me."

"But I'm a _dick,_ " Parse whines, appalled.

Jack just grins and wriggles again, and swallows Parse's gasp with a kiss. "Good thing I'm into dick, then, eh?"

Parse shakes his head but this time he lets Jack kiss him without stopping. His fingers find Jack's wrists and instead of feeling for a heartbeat, he holds on tight. This time, he won't let go.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] didn't ask for you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216511) by [attendtothebones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attendtothebones/pseuds/attendtothebones)




End file.
